


A Boy & His Centaur

by LegoLock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Abuse, Centaur John, Implied Kidnapping, Kidnapping, M/M, Old West, Slavery, Suggestive Themes, Teenlock, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:23:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegoLock/pseuds/LegoLock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Old West. A petulant teenaged Sherlock. An irritated horse trader Mycroft. A runaway centaur John. A sassy tutor Lestrade. And an evil businessman Moriarty. It's bound to be an adventure which will lead to tears and laughter. Will Mycroft be able to curb his little brother's reckless behaviour or will he be too distracted by Sherlock's rule breaking tutor? Can Sherlock save John from the evil clutches of his former owner or will John sacrifice it all to save Sherlock from the evilness of Moriarty?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Four-Legged Bribe

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so...this is set in "The Old West" era in America, obviously there's a bit of a twist because centaurs aren't real (or are they?) and I'm making them appear as if they're something people see all the time. So...yeah, there's a kind of fantastical part to this as well as a western setting. That's really all the notes I have about that...I just wanted to make the setting clear since I don't really touch on it too much in the story because...you know...summary and stuff. Anyhow, enjoy or don't! I really can't make you enjoy it...
> 
> (DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock or the works...wish I did...but I don't)

Sherlock Holmes stared out the window of the large study, that doubled as his room, while his tutor was droning on about something the young man cared little for. His bright blue eyes scanned over the thick woods in the distance with interest. Once his lessons were over he planned to explore the thick woods that bordered one side of the large fenced property. He'd already investigated the woods a few times since his arrival, but not to the extent he would like to.

The younger Holmes brother had only recently moved to America to stay with his brother on his horse ranch...after their parents forced him to. He'd been _“getting up to no good”_ too frequently back in his comfortable London home. So, his parents had paid for him to be shanghaied and taken to his brother's estate, hoping that taking him away from London would _“set him straight”_. So far, it had only made him more petulant. Mycroft all but held him captive in the house, making sure to stick him with the strictest and stuffiest tutors he could find. And when he did get out of the house...he was escorted by Mycroft or one of the various ranch hands that had been meticulously handpicked specifically to watch him.

The tutor cuffed Sherlock on the back of head, further messing his unkempt dark curls. “Pay attention, Young Master Holmes!”

Sherlock grunted and glared, his nostrils flared and his lips drawn in a tight line. Slowly, he fixed his plain, white, ill-fitting, shirt...taking his time to roll his sleeves to his elbows in a way he knew annoyed his tutor. “Why should I?”

The tutor cuffed him again, harder, “Why should I, _Sir_?” Emphasizing yet another thing the lanky young man hated...proper titles.

Rather than offer a response, Sherlock opted for silence. Hatred filled, petulant, silence. No amount of shouting, pleading, bargaining, or beatings would force him to speak. His tutor knew this well and slammed the book down on Sherlock's desk with a furious growl before he stormed from the room, leaving the door slightly ajar so Sherlock could hear him stomping down the stairs. Sherlock sincerely hoped the man was going to quit...he'd lasted the longest so far, though.

He could hear muffled shouts through the floor and echoing up the stairs, his lips curled into a satisfied smirk... _definitely_ quitting. After a few moments of shouting, Sherlock heard a door slamming. Then, like clockwork, he heard the even footsteps of his older brother ascending the steps to his study-bedroom-prison. He remained carefully seated at his desk, staring ahead silently when Mycroft pushed open the door with his dark wooden cane. He didn't need a cane, of course, it was all part of his rich man image. He was dressed immaculately of course, silken shirt and a tailored vest. A wide brimmed hat perched on his head at just the right, snooty, angle. His brown hair would be perfectly styled in place under it. Sherlock thought he looked like a pretentious bastard, standing there looking at him with stern grey eyes like it was all his fault.

Mycroft sighed, his lips curled down in a subtle frown. “Well, I certainly hope you are pleased with yourself, brother dear, because you will not be leaving this room until I find you another tutor.”

Sherlock's face snapped to his brother's sharply, “You can't do that!”

“Oh, but I can! This is _my_ home and outside watching every possible exit are _my_ men, who will more than happily bring you right back here should you even think about setting foot outside this room!” Mycroft snapped sharply, “It may not be fair, Sherlock, but you only have yourself to blame for the situation you are in.” With that said, Mycroft closed the door, turning the key in the lock as he went.

The young man flung himself at the door, more frustrated than upset. “Let me out, Mycroft!” But he could hear his brother descending the steps without responding, “I _hate_ you! I _hate_ all of you!”

“ _Caring_ is not an advantage, Sherlock.” Mycroft's voice muffled through the thick wood of the door.

Sherlock rattled the handle frustratedly before kicking the door with a final infuriated grumble. He wasn't getting out of his room for a while... _unfortunate_ , but not the first time he'd been locked in. Slowly, he turned to slump down against it. He pulled his knees to his chest and put his head on his arms, sighing loudly. Normally, he could stay like that for hours, but a subtle commotion from outside his window perked his interest. He ventured to the window as he gained his feet, staring with pure amazement at the scene unfolding below.

Several of Mycroft's ranch hands, who had rode out that morning to check on various herds of horses on the property, were approaching the manor and in their midst was a creature Sherlock had been longing to seen since he had arrived at the estate. _A centaur._ They were considered to be pests and even Mycroft had his fair share of trouble with them. Often they would break his fences and steal certain things from his property, like food or occasionally livestock. Mycroft even told him that the creatures had stolen several of his shirts once. Sherlock found them fascinating. He'd always hoped to see one on his ventures into the woods, now it seemed he wouldn't have to look far at all.

The centaur was stocky and short, like the stock horses the ranch hands preferred. He looked young, perhaps no older than Sherlock, and very strong. However, he seemed a little on the thin side...like he'd recently been missing more than a few meals. His skin was too pale for a wild centaur...and it was turning slightly red where it had been burned. Unaccustomed to light, perhaps he was from a forested area? His coat, though caked in mud in places, was mostly a creamy-golden colour. However, his rump and hips were blanketed with a pure white patch which mottled in odd patterns where the two colours met, a few white spots randomly freckling around the larger splotch in no particular pattern. The centaur's hair was a perfectly matched hue to his coat, it whipped around his shoulders and cascaded down his back in magnificently wild tangles. Tangles which Sherlock thought could use a little careful grooming, as he noted several twigs amongst the mats of untidy hair. However, for as long and wild as his hair was, his golden tail was remarkably short. It was probably less than half the length of the other horses' tails that surrounded him...or any other horse's tails on the property for that matter. Either it was part of the centaur's natural traits...or it had been docked sometime ago. If  that was the case, then the centaur had once been owned. Sherlock tried to see if there were other marks that might support this, but he had a limited view from his window and the centaur wasn't exactly standing very still.

The ranch hands were leading the furious centaur by several different lariats that were looped tightly around his torso, trapping his arms tight against his sides, and one around his neck that looked like it might be choking him. He kicked out savagely, _nearly_ hitting a man who rode too close, and reared as he tried to break free from the unrelenting pull of the harsh ropes. His actions were fuelled by fear...or maybe anger, either way he fought ferociously.

Mycroft arrived as the group of riders drew nearer to the house, standing just in front of the porch to calmly watch his men dragging the raging creature towards him. The centaur baulked and fought savagely, but there was no way he could fight off the ropes and horses that dragged him ever closer to Mycroft. Sherlock could see his sweat soaked flanks heaving with exertion, he'd been fighting a long time. A subtle motion from Mycroft had the party of riders drawing to a halt. They pulled the ropes tight, taking any slack the centaur might have gained, and thus forcing him to stay mostly still in the centre of their group. His tail swished madly and his struggles grew more violent at the increased restraint. He bucked and torqued violently, yanking one rope free. The slight slack allowed him to turn sharply and land a heavy sounding kick into the chest of the man holding the the lariat around his neck. The man dropped from the back of his horse with a wordless cry and the centaur reared magnificently, now that he wasn't being choked so severely. His striking hoof caught around another line, dragging yet another man off the back of his horse, it was pure chaos.

Sherlock was starting to root for the wild centaur, hoping it would manage to escape just so he could enjoy the look of irksome frustration on Mycroft's face. He cast his brother a glance and frowned, the man seemed unfazed that his ranch hands were starting to fall like flies. Instead, he made a subtle gesture with his cane and another man, who had been idly watching from a fence, hopped into action. Or strolled...he seemed in no hurry to assist the struggling riders that were barely containing the almost free centaur. The man casually unfurled a lariat from his hip and started to swing the loop over his head, waiting until the centaur launched his hind legs in another vicious kick. The man let the rope go and it expertly snagged around the centaur's back feet. The man yanked hard, pulling the creature’s hind legs together and dragging the centaur off balance with one skillful tug. The creature floundered and struggled, trying to remain on his feet, but with  his hind legs hobbled it was a pointless struggle. He hit the dirt with a loud thump, legs flailing wildly as he tried to get back up. Every time he managed to get halfway, he toppled over because he was still hindered by the rope around his hind feet.

Sherlock's lips thinned as he watched the despairing sight of the centaur falling one last time and staying down. His flanks heaved and foamed with sweat, his body trembling with exhaustion and defeat. Mycroft watched, waiting for several long minutes before he finally approached the downed beast. He mindfully stayed out of range of the centaur’s hooves, leaning forward just slightly to stare at something Sherlock couldn't see.

Mycroft straightened, saying something softly that made the centaur flinch and struggle, just slightly, to get back up...but he was just too tired. Settling to pant heavily and stare anywhere but at Mycroft. One of the riders approached Sherlock's brother after the creature settled and presented him a weathered, hand made, satchel. Mycroft glanced at the bag and nodded subtly, the man upended the bag so the contents spilling out in front of Mycroft's feet. Mostly, from what Sherlock could see, the contents consisted of various odd plants and bits of vegetation. But Mycroft sifted through the plants with his cane, gradually lifting the end and bringing with it a silver chain with some sort of pendant on it. The sight of the pendant made the centaur tense, his lips moved, but Sherlock couldn't hear what he said. He seemed desperate though.

The pendent meant something to the creature.

Mycroft  didn't bother giving the centaur a response, merely pocketing the pendant and motioning to his men. They forced the centaur up, dragging the exhausted creature towards one of the various stables to be detained. The centaur baulked only a little, looking back at Mycroft every few steps with a desperate plea. But the elder Holmes ignored him and turned back to the house, pausing when he noticed Sherlock watching from the window.

Sherlock abruptly folded his arms and turned his nose up with a huff, looking away from his brother and the scene below like he didn't care...but he did. He found he cared quite a lot. Not particularly about the centaur’s well being perhaps, but about the exchange that led to Mycroft detaining the beast instead of having it shot like any other pest would be. His thoughts swirled maddeningly as he tried to piece together answers with the limited knowledge he'd gained from his observations. So lost in these thoughts was he that he didn't hear the even footsteps on the stairs.

Mycroft entered the room before Sherlock recognized he was there, “Perhaps I was too hasty in punishing you earlier.”

“It's hardly been ten minutes, Mycroft.” Sherlock scoffed.

He heard his brother _'hmph'_ before he continued, “You expressed interest in the centaurs when you arrived. I will allow you examine this one as much as you like, while it is here.”

“Provided that I don't... _what_?” Sherlock asked as he turned, though he had a pretty good idea what his brother would say.

“ _Provided_ you do not make the next tutor I hire quit.”

Sherlock was sorely tempted to refuse, but the desire to examine the centaur was too great. So he nodded, “Fine.” He muttered, displeased to have to agree to Mycroft's terms...but it was worth it.

Mycroft didn't seem to believe Sherlock, but he stepped aside to allow his brother out of the room. “Go directly to the stables and do not deviate one step or you will be brought right back here, understood?”

Sherlock waved a hand airily as he brushed by eagerly, “Right, right...” Hardly paying attention to Mycroft's warning, too excited to care. He practically ran across the yard to the stables where the ranch hands had taken the beast, eager to get a closer look at it. The ranch hands were just leaving the stable, casting him a cursory glance when he ran by and into the small, dark, stable. It was unlike the horse stables on the property and Sherlock suspected its only purpose had once been to detain centaurs, though by the amount of dust on everything he'd say his brother hadn't had any domesticated centaurs for some time. He didn't think on it too long, heading down to the very end of the rows to where the centaur had been restrained between four hefty looking posts.

Each of the centaur’s legs were chained to the posts, the chains were heavy and each one wrapped around their adjoining post several times before being locked in place. His wrists and neck had been placed into what appeared to be a metallic stocks, it spanned between two posts and locked with heavy, archaic, locks. The centaur could barely move at all, not that he appeared so lively just then.

The young man eventually moved closer, taking a better look at the ragged looking centaur. He noted it was rather battered looking, old scars crisscrossed with newer ones over the centaur's back...he'd been beaten severely at some point. And there were other scars that suggested he'd been tied and struggling against various restraints. A particular one around his neck, from what he could see around the metal restraint, made Sherlock frown subtly.

Sherlock looked over the mud encrusted coat, his eyes coming to rest on a white brand on the right shoulder of the centaur's foreleg. It was hard to see with the creamy-white coat colour, but he was able to make out the two bold letters. **JM**. The centaur belonged to someone...which meant he was a runaway and not just another pest. That was why Mycroft hadn't had him shot. Mycroft would likely send a telegram to the owner and it likely was the owner who was to blame for the scars...

He reached a hand out to touch the neat lettering of the brand, the centaur flinched at the contact and shifted away...or tried to. He couldn't move more than a few inches either way. It infuriated him, his short tail flicking madly as he clenched his fists in his restraints. Sherlock had the distinct impression he didn't like to be touched. He couldn't say he faulted the beast for that as Sherlock wasn't overly fond of being touched either. So, he retracted his hand and moved to stand in front of the creature so he could look up into its frustrated eyes.

Misery, humiliation, pain...Sherlock knew those emotions well, though he was significantly better at hiding them than the centaur. “I'm Sherlock.” He finally offered, wondering if the creature would speak as it had for his brother. “I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just curious. I've never seen a centaur before.”

The centaur looked down at him and Sherlock wasn't sure he'd get a response, but the creature sighed softly. “I'm hardly a good specimen for study.” He was quite well spoken for a creature seen as a pest.

“Well, considering my brother won't allow me to explore for another...you'll have to do.” Sherlock paused, thinking for a moment. “Would you...like a drink? It's rather hot and you've been fighting a while...”

The centaur looked at him uncertainly, but he swallowed and dabbed at his lips with his tongue. “I'm not allowed to...”

Sherlock suspected Mycroft had forbid it, but that had never stopped Sherlock from trying. “I'll get you something.” Turning to head out of the stables at a pace, pausing at the doorway when he head the centaur calling after him.

“I-I'm John, by the way...”

Sherlock smiled, “I'll be right back, _John_.”


	2. The Rules May Bend A Little

True to his word, Sherlock returned after a handful of minutes...but he wasn't alone this time. Incidentally, when he'd been trying to sneak a drink from the cool well behind the house...the housekeeper had spotted him. She was a bit of a motherly, elder, lady and she fussed too much over everything, but truth be told...Sherlock rather liked her. She was the one person on the estate who didn't report his every move to his brother. Often times she would defy his orders, openly, and let Sherlock out when his door was locked, among other things.

In this case, Mrs. Hudson wondered what he was up to and if it had something to do with the centaur she'd seen dragged in. She had a soft spot for animals...and children...and anything she perceived as needing a little motherly attention. So when she asked...Sherlock had told her everything he thought was relevant, that John was the centaur's name and he was thirsty and thin. It hardly took her a moment to insist he come to the kitchen so she could prepare a tray to take out to the stable. Putting various sweets on the tray and swatting at Sherlock's hand gently as he stole a particular biscuit he liked. Then without any hesitation she took the tray and Sherlock right by Mycroft, who watched the sweet laden platter with a bitter desire while casting his younger brother a withering glare. Sherlock just smiled and took a bite from his own biscuit, rolling his eyes with exaggerated pleasure. Mycroft huffed and turned away sharply to return to his work inside, Sherlock suspected he might pay for his antics later...but he felt it might be worth it.

John perked at the sounds, looking over nervously as Sherlock approached with a woman carrying a food laden platter in tow. She gave the centaur one look and then started fussing. “Oh my, you poor dear...look at you...hardly anything but skin and bones!” She frowned and looked at Sherlock, “Oh I'll be having a word with your brother about this!” Mrs. Hudson huffed and turned back to John with a kind expression, “Don't you worry one bit, you poor dear, let Mrs. Hudson get things sorted out.” Gathering the skirt of her dress as she marched back out of the stable with as much determination as John thought a motherly woman could muster.

“Mycroft is in for an earful...” Sherlock murmured as he moved a barrel over to John so he could step up and be more level with the centaur's head. Bringing with him a glass he filled with the pitcher of water Mrs. Hudson had made him carry. Carefully, Sherlock placed the glass to John's lips.

The centaur more than happily sucked down the clear, cool, water. Licking his lips as Sherlock refilled the glass, “She seems...nice...”

“Mrs. Hudson? Lovely woman, actually. Little overbearing at times, but you get used to her.” Sherlock assured as he offered another glass, which John drank a bit slower. “I don't know how she's managed to keep her job here, but I suppose even Mycroft recognizes how difficult she would be to replace.” Smirking slightly, “She cooks for all his ranch hands too...so they would really be quite upset if she were to leave and be replaced with someone less capable of cooking.”

John smiled slightly, even though he'd barely met her...he rather liked her. He supposed she had that effect on people. Thanking the young man for the water, he wanted so much more...but he knew if he drank too much too quickly he'd be very sick. Sherlock settled on the barrel, offering up one of the various sweets on the tray after a moment. John hesitated, but nodded...embarrassed about Sherlock having to feed him, but he could hardly do it himself.

“Those plants...in your bag...they were very specific looking.” Sherlock continued after a moment, watching John chew thoughtfully. “I would wager you know their medicinal purposes, which would suggest you are some form of healer. Of course, you would have had to have been taught, but I'm guessing it wasn't by another centaur.”

The centaur's tail flicked and he looked towards Sherlock hesitantly before looking away, “Trial and error...mostly.”

“Hm.” Sherlock nodded as he settled for silence next to John.

The centaur wasn't much for conversation, but given his rough morning...Sherlock didn't blame him. So, he contented himself with thinking and waiting. It would only be a matter of time before the constant badgering of Mrs. Hudson would have Mycroft sending someone to rectify John's current state of restraints. He wouldn't be freed entirely, but he'd probably be able to lay down and move more freely.

John flicked his tail, wondering what Sherlock was thinking. But he was still uncertain about the boy and why he was helping. Mrs. Hudson had revealed that Sherlock was the brother to the man who had ordered his current arrangements, but Sherlock seemed determined to defy every order.

The stable doors opened once more, admitting the smiling housekeeper and a pair of ranch hands. They looked almost ashamed as the woman went on about how terrible it was that John was being restrained so. They didn't say much, setting about releasing John from most of the chains and fetching some straw for bedding. They lengthened the chains that restrained his feet, but didn't remove them entirely. John didn't expect them to, but at least he could move a bit more freely. The straw was piled to one side so he could place it where he pleased. John kept mostly still until the men left, reaching to rub his neck with a relieved sigh before he smiled subtly at Mrs, Hudson. “Thank you, Ma'am.”

“Oh, you are most welcome dear!” She smiled and started to head out with a final wave goodbye, “Don't stay out too late, Sherlock.”

The boy grunted in response and turned to observe John as the centaur slowly started to shift the straw under his hooves, the chains clinking quietly. After a few minutes of fussing, John slowly lowered his aching body with a muffled thump, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. He'd been on his feet for days and it felt fantastic to lay down...even though it wasn't particularly soft, even with the straw. Eventually, he turned his eyes on Sherlock, offering a tentative smile. “Um...thanks.”

Sherlock nodded, “I should leave you to rest now...tomorrow we can talk more.”

John nodded, wanting to ask the boy more...but he was rather tired. He watched the young man turn and leave, then closed his eyes to try and get some rest. He doubted he'd get much but he was determined to try.

Sherlock left the stables, the sun was setting. He wanted to stay and examine John more, but Mycroft had promised he could examine him as much as he liked...so long as he was there. And Sherlock doubted John's owner would respond right away. He strolled calmly back to the house, heading to his room where his dinner would be waiting for him. He had little desire to speak with Mycroft and it seemed Mycroft was avoiding he once more. Only ascending the steps to his prison to lock the door before he went to bed. The younger Holmes brother huffed, he had no intentions of leaving now that there was someone interesting around the ranch. Eventually, Sherlock doused the light and settled in to dream about his new topic of interest.

It seemed like he'd only just fallen asleep when he was suddenly sitting upright, his eyes going to the door as it opened. A middle-aged man lingered in the doorway, staring a moment before a flustered blush touched his cheeks.

“Sorry, I was told you'd be up already.” He scrubbed a hand through his short grey hair uncertainly.

Sherlock yawned and stretched, looking around. By the brightness of his room, and the cold platter of breakfast, he judged it was well into mid-morning. He reached over to pick at the cold food with mild interest, “You must be the new tutor. I admit...I wasn't expecting a new one so soon.”

The man stepped into the room slowly and sighed, “Well, your brother can be very convincing.” He murmured, his brown eyes flickering with some mixture of disbelief and scepticism. He was a lean man who looked like he would be more at home doing some sort of physical labour instead of teaching. But he was also a man who was clearly low on money, his jacket was patched in several places and his trousers were just slightly too short. His arms were full of extremely worn books, they were old and inaccurate at best, but probably all he could afford. He wasn't at all the kind of tutor Sherlock was expecting, but perhaps Sherlock had scared off all the better ones. “I'm Greg Lestrade.”

“You prefer _Lestrade_.” Sherlock murmured as he sipped his cold tea, making a face and setting it down. “You're not a well studied tutor. But you're the only one in the area who will take the job because everyone else has heard of me. You've heard stories too...some probably not true, but most likely are. If it were not for a certain event which occurred yesterday, I would do everything in my power to see you gone by midday. However, I made a deal and I'd rather not lose my one interesting privilege before I can fully exploit it.”

The man stared at him, raising a brow. He appeared irritated, but he just nodded. “You're right. I am the only daft tutor left who will teach you. Your brother insists I use any means I see fit, but...I'm not interested in losing my job on the first day...or week. So...here's how this works...” He moved towards Sherlock, “We're going to get along, we don't have to like each other...I'm fairly certain we won't. But I'm not going anywhere.”

Sherlock stared at Lestrade a long time, then nodded. “No...I can see that.” He murmured and huffed, “Fine. What am I learning today, then?”

Lestrade sighed, seeming relieved somewhat. He looked around the room and slowly set the books down on Sherlock's desk. His eyes drifted out the window and a subtle smile touched his lips, “How about a field trip?”

Sherlock paused with a forkful of cold breakfast halfway too his lips. “Field trip?” A trill of excitement raced up his spine, “My brother won't allow it...”

“He said I could do as I pleased, so long as you learned something. Frankly, it's too nice a day to study in a stuffy room and read about some old dead men.” Lestrade turned and headed for the door, “That forest looks like a good place to start, do you think we can get a couple of horses to ride out?”

Sherlock leaped out of bed, still in the same clothes he'd been wearing the day before, and followed Lestrade quickly. “Yes, but I can't ride.”

“Really?” Lestrade paused on the steps to look back at Sherlock with wonder, “You can't ride?”

Sherlock huffed, “My brother wouldn't trust me not to run off.”

“And...will you?” Lestrade asked casually as he continued down the steps.

“Not today.”

“Well, I guess that will just have to do.” Lestrade shrugged as he headed out with Sherlock hot on his heels. He stopped sharply though and Sherlock slammed into his back with a subtle squeak.

“And just _where_ are you two going? Are you _not_ supposed to be tutoring?” Mycroft's voice drawled from over Lestrade's shoulder. The tone was utterly disapproving.

“We're going to the woods to examine local flora and fauna and I'm gonna teach him to ride on the way out. I'm teaching him life skills today.” Lestrade said evenly, his shoulders squared. He wasn't very intimidated and Sherlock wasn't sure if the man was brave...or stupid. “Besides...you told me to get him to learn by any means possible.”

Sherlock waited, expecting Mycroft to tell the man to leave and not come back...but instead he stepped aside and gestured in an irritated manner. _“Fine.”_

Lestrade inclined his head, starting towards the stables. Sherlock hesitated, looking to the stable where John was most certainly still waiting. As much as Sherlock wanted to visit with him...now was not the time. He would visit with the centaur later, having a feeling he was already pushing his luck with his new tutor; a man he wasn't sure that he hated...or liked. He couldn't decide, but for now he would tolerate Lestrade...only because he'd managed to get by Mycroft.

As they approached the stables, a pair of horses were brought out...like they'd been ready and waiting. Like Mycroft had been waiting. Maybe he had been. Lestrade's low whistle drew his attention, watching the man approach the horses with awe. “You seriously ride these?”

“What else would you expect us to ride?” Sherlock murmured as he approached, he had a certain mistrust of horses...they were tricky creatures, but if riding one got him away from Mycroft and the estate for a few hours then he was willing to...temporarily tolerate them.

“Don't be a smart arse...” Lestrade growled, “Not everyone can afford to have posh horses like these you know.”

“ _Posh?_ These ones? Oh, I assure you these are the least _posh_ horses on the property.” The young man stated casually as he looked at the long legged, refined, beasts that stood before them. Sure they had nice shining coats and gracefully arching necks, but they were hardly stock Mycroft cared about...hence why they were brought out for riding.

Lestrade held his hands up as if in defeat and took the bay gelding, motioning Sherlock to take the greying sorrel mare. She was probably one of the older horses and therefore a lot calmer...or so Sherlock hoped. He knew very little about horses, mostly refusing to learn because Mycroft had insisted he learn once. And he'd refused ever since just for spite...and Mycroft wouldn't trust him not to run off of course. But now...it seemed like some knowledge might have been helpful.

“Watch me, Sherlock.” Lestrade said softly, aware the boy had said he knew not how to ride...but he detected Sherlock would want to impress the watching ranch hands as well as his sceptical brother. So he turned his mount so Sherlock could observe how he mounted, adjusting himself in the saddle while Sherlock looked at his horse.

The mare gave him a glance, not even mildly interested as she yawned. Well...that really inspired confidence. Sherlock hesitated, thinking over the procedure he had just witnessed. He lifted his left foot into the stirrup, bounced once on his right leg, and pulled himself up into the saddle. It took more effort than he anticipated...but he refused to left Mycroft have something to gloat about. He almost fell off the other side, but Lestrade reached over to straighten him before he fell. Ignoring everyone else around them as he gave the most basic of instructions on how to...operate...the horse that was standing under him, then he gave Mycroft a wave and started them out of the gate towards the woods...


	3. Shameful Bathing

John perked at the sounds of horses moving in the yard. He could hear faint voices, but nothing distinct. He'd been awake since dawn, amazingly enough he'd managed to get a little rest through the night. It was remarkably peaceful on the estate and he had only been awakened by the ranch hands getting to work in the early morning hours. Briefly after that, Mrs. Hudson had dropped by with breakfast. She'd told him that Sherlock was a late sleeper so he shouldn't worry and various other topics of gossip while they drank some tea. Mostly John just let the woman talk, he was still a little shy about saying much considering he was still more captive than anything. Once Mrs. Hudson left, John had been left to his own devices. Which meant John spent most of the morning listening to the ranch activities. Someone arrived on horseback close to mid-morning, they'd shared words with the owner close enough for John to listen in on.

“Mister Holmes.” 

“Ah, Greg...I admit I thought you would refuse.”

“Hard to turn down such a generous offer.”

“It helps that times are hard.”

There was a pause and sigh, “Times are _always_ hard, makes no difference.”

“ _Hm.”_

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing! Nothing...just... _hm._ ”

“Between the stories about your little brother and your _'hm'_ , it's a wonder anyone works for you at all.”

“The value of paying well and having a very well-liked house keeper, Greg.”

There was a long silence before they started to walk, “ _Alright_ , well...I'll be getting started with Sherlock...” The rest of the conversation was lost as they walked away from the stable and out of John's limited hearing range. 

When John heard the horses leaving the yard, he suspected it was Sherlock and his new tutor and they would be gone some time. It was a bit of a let down, considering he had hoped to see Sherlock again. John sighed and closed his eyes, settling to get some more rest. What else could he do? 

The stable doors suddenly banged open, startling John and making him struggle to his feet. A group of ranch hands approached, Mycroft in tow. He walked only a few feet into the stables and watched his men approach the uncertain centaur. John backed away as much as the chains allowed, his head high and fists clenched. His tail started flicking as they sought out the dusty restraints throughout the stables. Restraints that John knew well, but by the look of them they hadn't been used in some time on this particular property.

“I suggest you behave...it will make this much easier.” Mycroft drawled as he leaned on his cane with a sigh, looking bored and yet amused by John's resistance.

The blonde centaur snorted and pawed, unwilling to accept more restraints...unwilling to play along. He knew resistance was foolish and wouldn't amount to anything, but John refused to be subservient to someone so smug. The ranch hands looked from him to their boss, waiting until Mycroft made a subtle gesture and turned away to walk out the stable doors. As soon as Mycroft turned...the men sprung! In the span of a heartbeat, John had two hefty men on him. He cursed and shook violently, trying to twist and buck and strike as more came at him. He threw the first man off after managing to get hold of his shirt, the second hit the ground when John bumped him against one of the beams he was chained to.

Dust stirred under his hooves, the chains jerked and clanked loudly as he fought them. For a few minutes he managed to keep them at bay, but with his limited mobility he didn't stand a chance. One man managed to get a solid hold on his mane of hair and grab one arm, when John tried to reach to dislodge him with the other hand...another man grabbed hold. In a handful of seconds, he couldn't use his arms and more of the ranch hands piled onto him to hold him still. They pinned his chained legs at the ends of the lengths, making it near impossible to move his feet again. 

John panted and struggled against the restraining hands, but it was useless. Three thick, stiff, cold leather belts were fastened tightly around his torso, each of which buckled at his spine. Each belt had two cuff-like additions on the sides where his arms were. They were meant to hold his arms to his sides, which was exactly what happened next. The restraints buckled around his wrists, above each elbow, and just below each shoulder. John torqued and twisted, but his arms remained trapped at his sides. John's hands clenched as he twisted his wrists desperately, but to no avail. 

The men clamped down a little harder, warning John that something was coming. He jerked his head up just as a blindfold pressed over his face. It was heavy and thick and blocked every shred of light. John thrashed wildly, finally dislodging most of the ranch hands while the rest merely let go. They let him struggle blindly for several long minutes until he finally stopped, panting and standing stock still. 

A hand patted his heaving flank, making him flinch. “There...now was that so hard?” It was Mycroft and his voice was nothing but smug. 

John shifted uncertainly. He couldn't see and he was concerned to move for fear of stepping on something that would cause him to break his leg, even though he knew he was still chained in the small area. It was a primal fear...one that was deeply rooted in his nature and one that he couldn't override. They fastened a leather collar around his neck and then very carefully released his legs. Mycroft's hand remained on him for a moment before he stepped back, John felt the subtle tug of a lead on his collar. For a moment, he refused to move. His knees locked and his back braced. 

There was a sharp crack an instant before John felt a sting on his rump. He jumped forward with a short yelp, stopping abruptly when his guiding pull was gone. Mycroft tutted nearby and John heard the swish of the thin horsewhip as the man flicked it near his flank. John wasn't a stranger to riding crops and he tensed in response to the very knowledge of its presence. When he felt the pull on his neck, he followed slowly. His steps were stilted and uncertain and he bumped into a few of the ranch hands as they exited the stables into the yard. If he slowed too much, Mycroft applied the crop to his sensitive rump and if he kicked out...he received another solid strike.

They led John, stumbling, through the yard and through a gate. Tentatively he worked his way along, his rump stung by the time they arrived at their destination. They left him standing for a moment. Then someone ran a hand down his foreleg, for a moment he refused...but he heard the swish of the crop and all but launched his leg off the ground. The leg was then fastened so he couldn't put it back on the ground, making moving even more difficult and terrifying.

The centaur’s breath was ragged, terrified and unsure. What were they going to do? Did they mean to leave him standing on three legs somewhere unknown? John flicked his tail nervously as he waited for some indication as to what was happening, but all he could hear was the scuffing footsteps of the ranch hands as they moved around him. Then, without any warning, freezing cold water was poured over his flanks and rump. Another bucketful of water was poured over his head, leaving him sputtering and shivering. The water was ice cold! They were relentless though, making sure he was thoroughly soaked before a harsh soap was worked into his coat and through his mane and over his skin. They were _cleaning_ him...quite roughly. John shifted and squirmed, they weren't cleaning him out of consideration for his own well-being. It was to impress upon him his position. A position John loathed, but given that he couldn't move around he had no choice but to take the cleaning in bitter silence. 

His tail was being combed out and his thick, unkempt, mane was untangled roughly. They rinsed him once they seemed satisfied the mud and mats were coming out, leaving him dripping and shivering while they tended to making him appear more as a _“domestic”_ centaur should. His short tail was braided slowly while someone examined his hooves, starting to trim them so they would look more manicured. Each leg was restrained one at a time so the farrier work could be done, while making sure John was always on three feet. Not only were they trimmed, they were shod with heavy steel shoes. It wasn't the first time John had been shod, but the weight on his feet was unpleasant. He stayed still for the most part, unwilling to fall or trip in a place he couldn't see or to be struck by the stinging horsewhip again.

At least, that was, until he felt someone touching his mane. The thick hair was long and wild and did in fact go down his spine. He was proud of its length...mostly because it was a clear indication of being a free centaur. He heard the familiar creak of scissors and tensed, jerking his head away from the sound and twisting his body away with a short cry.

“ _ **No!”**_

In an instant hands were on him, restraining him as he struggled to keep away from the shears. He was doing a good job of it and he was hoping they might give up, until a rough hand snagged his hair and his whole torso was bent forward so two strong ranch hands could hold his head down. He fought them, but they had him in a compromised stance and they outnumbered him drastically.

John felt his hair being pulled straight and heard the clip of scissors. He grunted and strained, growing more and more distressed with every clip. He could feel his long mane being trimmed to an unbearable shortness, exposing his elfin pointed ears. Most, he imagined, wouldn't understand it...but getting his long mane sheared forcefully off was demoralizing. Worse still, they didn't make it jagged... they instead took their time to make him presentable. Once his head was finished they worked down his spine to trim the lengthy hair away into the preferred style of a domestic pet. Tears formed behind the blindfold as he strained, fighting hopelessly to the bitter end. His chest and flanks heaving with despair.

A final dose of cold water to clean the loose hairs...and John was clean, shod, and trimmed. His pride was _decimated_ and all the fight had gone out of him. He didn’t' resist them as they led him back to the stables and returned chains to his feet. His head was bowed and he just wanted to hide. It was humiliating for him and Mycroft knew it. The man was slowly breaking John down because he could....because John was nothing more than property. Worse than that...he was someone's runaway property who deserved to be punished for thinking he could be free. 

John listened to the men leaving the stables, aware Mycroft was still watching him. The man tapped the brand on his foreleg gently, “I know who you belong to. We do business often. He is due for his annual visit _soon_ and I know he will enjoy a surprise. I am certain he has been _very worried_ about you.” Mycroft was probably smirking, he sounded like he should be, but John couldn't tell.

A tremor of fear went through him...his master was coming and Mycroft hadn't said specifically when. It was meant to make him fret and worry...and of course that's exactly what he did. He listened to Mycroft walking away calmly before he carefully lowered himself to the ground with a sniffle. Tears continued to gather behind the blindfold as he tried not to cry, but the utter hopelessness was starting to sink in...and it _hurt_ so bad. John had had the smallest taste of hard won freedom...which he'd foolishly thrown away by being caught. He was frustrated and afraid...very aware that his master would be extremely displeased when he arrived and found John. Misery consumed his thoughts as he drifted in and out of consciousness...

It seemed like hours had passed before John heard someone push open the stable door, the footfalls were light and well placed. Not like the ranch hands, but similar to Mycroft...only lighter. John stayed where he was, just breathing deeply and waiting. The footsteps faltered and then hurried, reaching John in a handful of strides. Deft, nimble, fingers freed the blindfold from his eyes and John lifted his head slightly to stare into Sherlock's face. There were warring and complex emotions in his tense features, his eyes darting as they took in all of John. 

The centaur stared, feeling utterly ashamed that Sherlock was looking him over in his current state. He swallowed and turned his eyes away as his head dropped again, shameful tears welling in his eyes once more. The young man stared silently for a moment longer, then reached out to unfasten the collar...throwing it with a growl. 

“How _dare_ he...” Sherlock hissed as he turned back to John, making the centaur lift his head uncertainly. “No wonder he let me go so bloody easily!” The young man reached to touch John's short cropped hair, but stopped short. “I won't let this happen again.” 

John frowned slightly, “Why...do you care?”

Sherlock shifted, his nose wrinkling before he shook his head and murmured. “Let's get this off you...” Starting to free John's arms, an act which the centaur was most grateful for. “I have a new tutor, Lestrade, I think you'd like him.” Directing the topic easily away from John's question.

“ _Greg_ Lestrade?” John asked softly, blinking away the tears. He found talking with Sherlock a huge relief after another stressful day.

The dark haired boy gave him a glance as he nodded, tossing the leather belts away. “How did you know?”

“I...I heard him talking to your brother when he arrived. He sounded a bit...cheeky.”

“He is, a bit, actually. That or he's stupid...”

John scoffed a gentle laugh as Sherlock settled down next to him. “So, you...went for a ride?”

“Yes, Lestrade took me to the woods! Though, he wasn't much help identifying plants. I saw some that reminded me of the ones in your bag, but I didn't bring anything to carry them back with. Next time I told him that we needed to bring you along so you could help. And...” Sherlock continued explaining his day to John in great detail, which the centaur didn't at all mind. Sherlock didn't even pause when Mrs. Hudson brought them dinner. They talked...and talked...and talked...the stables growing ever darker. John yawned gently and shifted in his straw, Sherlock yawned and stretched out next to him...still talking faintly...though his myriad of words began to slow. Eventually it stopped all together, being replaced by the comfortable sounds of slumber from both centaur and boy...


	4. Ownership Pains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay loves, it's been a bit of a hard week for me. I promise I won't leave you hanging though with an unfinished piece. Hopefully you guys are still enjoying the story! There's still so much more to come!

John came awake to the sounds of the ranch hands getting to work, surprised to find a rather cozy blanket draped around his shoulders and tucked around his body where he leaned against one of the beams for some support. It was warm and a pleasant change to the first night where he'd had nothing but straw. The centaur smiled slightly, wondering if it was Mrs. Hudson who had brought it for him...it seemed like something she would do. Slowly, John stretched and yawned, pausing when he recognized a slight weight on his withers. He frowned and turned carefully to see what it was.

_ It  _ was Sherlock. 

The slender young man was draped over John's withers and back. His face was turned to John's rump and he could feel the young man's even breaths against his fur, one of his hands was resting on John's long back. Sherlock, too, had a blanket tucked around him. For a moment, John just watched Sherlock sleeping. He wondered how the boy had gotten to be curled up against him in such a way without waking him.

The young centaur thought a while, he wanted to move from his current position because he was stiff. However, Sherlock looked peaceful where he was and John loathed to awaken his new companion. John sighed slowly and gently, watching Sherlock rise and fall with his breath, and remained relatively still while he resumed listening to the ranch hands getting to work again. As soon as they left the yard, Mrs. Hudson arrived once more. She offered a smile to John, though he could see the sad look in her eyes when she noticed his short hair, as she held up a tray heaped with rich aromatic food and a some steaming cups of tea. John smiled back, beginning to enjoy the visits...trying not to think about how he'd miss them once his master arrived. The motherly woman set the tray before John and let the young centaur tuck in eagerly. Mrs. Hudson let him eat in peace for a few moments before she showed him something else she'd brought. A long linen shirt. It was definitely tailored for a centaur. John swallowed a mouthful with a bit of an awed expression, taking the shirt with wonder. 

“I know it's probably a little big, but it's all I could find. You know, at one point Mycroft used to have so many beautiful centaurs here. He never owned any...not at first anyway. He used to offer refuge to some of the smaller groups in the area when times where hard on them, or...well...harder than usual. He didn't always agree with them being considered pests after all. He used to employ them, offer a safe place for mothers to birth their young, and warmth in the winter when they needed it. Often they would join us for dinner...it was all very nice.” Mrs. Hudson sighed gently, looking away with a distant sort of dreamy look as if she were recalling better times.

John glanced to her, “What...changed?” He asked softly.

The housekeeper's eyes fell as she gave John a sad look, “I don't know, dear. I went away for a time and when I came back, Mycroft was...different and his views on centaurs had clearly changed. He kept some for a time, but not long. He hired all new hands and put up a fence...and chased the centaurs away. He won't talk about it and he gets very upset if you mention it.”

He frowned, wondering what had happened to make Mycroft suddenly change. But he noted what Mrs. Hudson said, he didn't want to upset Mycroft as he was already on the man's bad side. Rather than push for more details, the young centaur shrugged off the blanket and pulled the shirt slowly over his head. It was indeed too big and the sleeves were just slightly too long, but he didn't mind. Even though wild centaurs didn't typically wear clothes during the warmer months, John wasn't exactly wild and he found some comfort in being able to cover himself again. Not to mention his skin was unaccustomed to the sunlight and would probably thank him for the cover...though he doubted he would see much sunlight.

Sherlock shifted on John's withers, drawing the centaur's attention. He glanced back to the young man, watching him shifting in his sleep for a few seconds. Mrs. Hudson smiled faintly, “I came to check on him when he didn't come in last night. I found him like that and didn't have the heart to wake the poor dear...”

“It's alright.” John assured as he turned to face her again, taking up a cup of tea slowly.

John really didn't mind...it wasn't like Sherlock weighed much and the centaur didn't exactly have anywhere to go. Besides...Sherlock was proving to be good company. John had almost forgotten what it was like to have companions...his former master hadn't exactly been the kindest and it wasn't like he had a group in the wild waiting for him. He nursed the tea and listened to Mrs. Hudson as she fell back into gossiping. Eventually, Sherlock stirred and rubbed his cheek on John's back with a moan.

“Oh, it's about time you got up young man!” Mrs. Hudson quipped, “You need to bathe and change your clothes.”

“Why? It's such a waste of time...” Sherlock muttered into John's fur, not seeming at all bothered by where he was resting...or embarrassed. With a sleepy sigh, he lifted his head. “I'll just be getting dirty anyway...” His unkempt curls were in even more disarray than before.

“I don't care! I won't have you running around like a little wild thing!” She scolded, but her tone was gentle and motherly. “Now go on and get cleaned up, your breakfast will be waiting once you've finished.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and gave John an unamused stare that said he wasn't impressed with having to wash up. John offered a helpless shrug and resumed sipping his tea as the blanket wrapped boy sleepily tread out of the stables. John missed his presence almost immediately, but it wasn't like Sherlock was leaving him forever. He knew the young man would be back in no time at all...provided he didn't get detained for some reason or another. 

Mrs. Hudson must have seen the look on his face, because she offered a motherly smile and reached over to fix a few stray pieces of John's newly cut hair. “Don't fret, he'll be back before you know it, dear.”

John nodded silently, but his eyes remained focused on the stable doors. Mrs. Hudson stayed with him for a while longer before she had to leave too. Once more...John was left alone in the stables. He stood to stretch, but other than that he couldn't really do much. He wanted to go outside...but that was just wishful thinking. There was no way he'd be permitted out of the stables. John glanced to the doors, wishing they would leave them open so he could at least see into the yard or so a slight breeze could blow through the barn. Maybe if Mycroft came to see him he could...ask...for it.

As much as John loathed the idea...it wouldn't be the first time he'd begged someone for something. At least he was relativity certain Mycroft wouldn't beat him for asking, unlike his former master. A master that was due to arrive at some point and when he did, John was certain he would regret ever escaping in the first place. A tear came to his eye at the thought. John shifted and flicked his tail...it didn't swish anymore now that it had been braided neatly. Not that there had ever been much to swish about since it had been...docked. It made a sort of hollow thud against his rump. He was tempted to reach back and undo it, but he could still feel the tender sting from the horsewhip and decided he didn't want to feel it again.

“No, no, _no_!” Mycroft's cross tone cut through his thoughts and made the centaur turn his head to the commotion outside his prison stables. 

“Then I'll make your last tutor _quit_ and you won't find another one within a hundred miles that will come and tutor me!” Sherlock's voice was raised and heated to match the tone of his brother. 

“And then _you_ would be stuck in your room, Sherlock.”

“As if that's ever stopped me getting out before.”

“Sherlock, do not try my patience...I will not tolerate _it_ roaming free.”

“ _His_ name is _John_.”

There was a pause and John strained to hear what was happening, concerned that they'd moved out of range. He shifted tensely and strained against the chains. 

“Do I detect a note of _sentiment_ , brother dear?” Mycroft's voice was low and John almost missed what was said. 

Sherlock did not respond right away and John imagined there was some unspoken communication happening between them before the young man finally spoke again. “Where exactly would he go, Mycroft? Your brutes are all over the place. If he even thought about running away he'd be caught long before anything could happen. Besides, you said I could examine him while he's here and I want to see him moving around!”

“No and no again.” Mycroft hissed, “I will not have it, Sherlock. The last thing I need is to have _it_ run off...”

“His name...is _John_.” John didn't know if humans could growl, but Sherlock certainly came close. “Refer to him as anything but _John_ and I'll give you a good reason to lock me in my room, _brother dear_.” The words were full of contempt.

Another tense silence followed and John was certain something was about to occur that would go poorly for Sherlock. However, much to his surprise, Lestrade's voice suddenly chimed in and diffused what might have been a volatile situation. “Normally I don't involve myself in sibling squabbles...”

“And so you should not.” Mycroft murmured.

Lestrade huffed and continued, “But I have to agree with Sherlock. I think it's in everyone's best interests if you let John out. Sherlock will settle for his lessons, John could use a little fresh air to keep him from withering up, and I'll keep an eye on the both of them. Plus, you have what amounts to a small army of ready and willing hands, which are more than capable of bringing down a runaway centaur...should he choose to run. Given what I've been told...I don't think he's that stupid.”

“Oh, for pity's sake...” Mycroft sighed in very dramatic Holmes' fashion and John imagined he'd thrown his hands up in the air in frustrated surrender. _“Fine.”_ There was a sharp whistle that startled John and then a scuffing of feet as Mycroft turned and retreated to wherever he'd come from.

The stable doors opened shortly after that and Sherlock ran inside. His hair was still damp from his bath and he was wearing clothes that looked exactly like what he'd been wearing before, though they appeared cleaner. He ran down to where John stood, shifting nervously, flicking his tail uncertainly as another man, he assumed was Greg Lestrade, lingered in the stable doors and rolled up his sleeves calmly.

Sherlock jogged down to John, holding a rustic looking key up triumphantly with a smirk. “It's going to be a nice day and I thought you might like to come outside and join me.” Kneeling to work on the locks on the chains. 

John couldn't help but smile, trying to keep still while Sherlock worked on freeing him. Apparently wishful thinking wasn't entirely out of his reach, glancing to the open doors eagerly. His day was looking a bit brighter, which was a pleasant turn of events given how his last two days had been. Sherlock stood and John stepped away from the chains with a relieved smile.

“Thank you.”

The young man offered a smile, then motioned John to come with him as he headed for the doors. Lestrade watched them, he seemed to be taking in John. He was obviously familiar with centaurs, but he didn't seem impressed. Like he'd expected more. John gave him an uncertain glance as they approached. 

Lestrade offered a reassuring smile, “Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson have talked non-stop about you...but to be honest I expected a lot more from all the talk.” He shrugged and moved away from the doors, “When you're ready, Sherlock, I'll be set up on the porch. But, don't take too long, your brother is already mad enough for one day.” Slowly starting towards the house without much more explanation than that.

John wondered what they'd been saying, but thoughts about asking left his mind when he felt a soft breeze on his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled the cool, fresh, air as he turned his face to sun. It felt so good to be outside, without restraints, after nearly two full days being trapped in a dusty, dark, barn. It took all his will power not to take off running, but he knew he'd never get past the gate. He could hear some ranch hands lingering around and he could feel their eyes on him...they wouldn't let him make a move towards the gate, let alone past it. So, he savoured what little freedom he'd been given, his eyes opening as he turned his gaze to Sherlock. 

The young man was watching him, his face was carefully passive...but there was a light in his eyes that suggested he was pleased with John's response. And angry that he couldn't let the centaur go. John offered a careful smile and slowly moved into the yard, it felt good to walk around and stretch out. Sherlock watched him moving around the yard, he wanted to spend more time with the centaur...but he had promised to behave. So, reluctantly, he trailed after his tutor and left John to roam. 

The blonde centaur didn't venture too far from Sherlock's sight, he was nervous about going too far. Sherlock was like his protector...and John was unwilling to be caught too far from him. Not to mention he was uneasy about the watchful ranch hands. John eventually found himself staring out into a field of horses. Particularly a small group of mares with foals. The mares grazed peacefully as their foals darted around them, playfully chasing each other or kicking up their heels. John watched them with a sad sort of envy as he found himself thinking about his own mother...and his childhood.

He'd barely known his mother...he could hardly remember her face or her voice or her scent. She had been a domestic centaur of good breeding stock and she had been well liked by her owner. John's father had been a wild centaur who had...hopped a few fences to breed with her when her owner had been inattentive. He assumed she was bred to good stock, of course, when John was born it was fairly obvious what had happened. The rancher hadn't wanted John...so he'd cruelly sent John to the auction. And that was where John had been bought by his current master. And that was when John's misery began.

John jumped slightly as a hand came to rest on his withers. It was Sherlock, he looked up at John before he removed his hand. “You weren't responding...” He made a vague gesture behind him. “Mrs. Hudson made tea.”

The centaur nodded, “Oh.” John nodded as he turned his back on the horses. “S-sorry...I...”

Sherlock shook his head, “It's fine. Come on...let's have tea. Lestrade is boring me to death and I could really use the company.” Offering a disarming smile as if he was aware John was upset.

John offered a tentative smile, “Surely he's not so boring?”

“Oh God, you have no idea!” The young man began as they started for the porch to join Lestrade...


	5. Willing Captive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of updates. I recently got rather sick and couldn't manage to work my brain around it. I also have some projects and exams coming up so that doesn't help. In any case, here is some fluffy stuff...because it won't be fluffy for long and you should enjoy it while it lasts!

A form of normalcy fell over the estate after that day. After Mycroft's initial display of dominance, he'd avoided John like the plague. Which suited the centaur just fine, since every time he saw the man he felt the sting of the horsewhip. Sherlock decided to join John in the stable, rigging up a sort of cot so he could sleep if he needed to. John was still chained at night, but he was allowed to roam during the day. Of course, after the first day, Mycroft made it a condition that John was to wear a collar. It was demeaning, but it was hardly the worst he'd ever put up with.

Lestrade taught Sherlock his riding lessons every morning, allowing John to join them so he could stretch his legs in the pasture. They decided a pasture would be safer than the openness of the countryside for Sherlock. John then joined Sherlock for afternoon tutoring sessions that varied in subjects. John found all the information fascinating, but Sherlock complained that it was all useless information and that he'd have to spend hours de-cluttering his brain later. By the end of the second week of John's captivity, the centaur was feeling less like a prisoner and more like a companion. 

John stretched as he walked with Sherlock, who was leading the calm greying sorrel mare, towards the pasture. Lestrade was waiting for them, as usual, finishing off the remainder of his breakfast, which was unusual. The man usually ate with Mycroft...

“Are you fighting?” Sherlock asked as he passed by.

Lestrade seemed stunned, but huffed and readjusted his coat. “ _Fighting?_ No...that's what couples do, Sherlock.” He sounded irritated and didn't offer further explanation as he moved into the pasture. 

“ _Hm...”_

“Don't you start with that too!” Lestrade snapped over his shoulder.

John's brow furrowed and he leaned over to Sherlock, “What's going on?” He whispered, not quite as good at reading people as the young man was.

Sherlock glanced to Lestrade as he prepared to mount, “My brother has offended him. If I had to guess it was something to do with his style. My brother probably meant to offer him something else to wear that wasn't so worn, a gesture that would seem kind to anyone else. But Lestrade is stubborn and proud, so he probably took it the wrong way. They argued and Lestrade is now obviously avoiding him.” Firing off the observations rapidly, but in a low whisper.

The young centaur flicked his tail, which wasn't braided at the moment, and looked to the irritated tutor that stood with his back to them. All he could tell was that Lestrade was mad, but beyond that he couldn't see all those things, “Amazing.” He breathed.

Sherlock smiled a second, revelling in the praise the centaur offered him, before mounting and guiding the horse towards Lestrade. John smiled and set out to walk the fence line while they went over things. While Sherlock was improving, he still disliked riding in general. He disliked the unpredictable nature of an animal under him, but he hid it well. John didn't think the mare was too unpredictable at her age, and with her disposition, she was content to go slow and exactly where Sherlock asked. 

John continued his usual workout while Sherlock worked on his riding, taking up trotting around the large pasture and then loping. Two weeks ago, John had been questioning if he would survive in the wild. He'd been starving and his strength had been on the decline, but after two weeks of Mrs. Hudson stuffing him and two weeks of much needed rest...he was looking much better. He certainly wasn't looking as painfully thin and he felt like he could run for hours. He felt as good as a captive centaur could feel in his situation. Occasionally, at night when Sherlock wasn't with him, he felt the overwhelming hopelessness of his life threaten to choke him. The chains and the collar where an ever present reminder that he wasn't free and that his master was coming. Yet, every time he saw Sherlock...those thoughts were chased away. John thought he wouldn't mind belonging to the Holmes' estate.

The young centaur's thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock called his name, making him look over as he slowed to a walk. Sherlock was watching him, as the boy so often did, with an expression of curiosity and excitement, like something John did was positively astounding. John hesitated, but trotted over to where the young man waited on horseback.

“We're going to go to the pond! I didn't know there was a pond! Did you? Lestrade thinks there will be some interesting plants there and he wants you to come along.”

“I don't...think your brother will let me...” John frowned, though he had to admit it sounded like fun. 

Sherlock huffed and waved his hand airily, “Lestrade's gone to sort that out, we need to tell Mrs. Hudson so she can fix us lunch to take.” Directing the mare back towards the yard without saying much more than that. 

John frowned, but followed. There was no point arguing about it, he'd play along and try not to get his hopes up. Trotting ahead of Sherlock into the yard and heading for the back of the house, that was usually where Mrs. Hudson could be found. Sherlock called after him to slow down and that he was cheating, John just smiled and made a face as he trotted around the corner.

“Oh, John!” Mrs. Hudson proclaimed as John trotted into view. “You look well rested!” She beamed. “I suspect you came to ask about lunch? I'm just about finished packing it for you four.”

Sherlock frowned as he navigated the mare around the house, _“Four?”_

“Yes, brother dear, I will be joining you on your little venture.” Mycroft's voice came from above through an open window, but the man himself remained out of view. He didn't sound impressed to be coming.

“Why?” Sherlock all but growled as he glared up at the window.

“Why not?” Mycroft fired back with just as much venom in his overly sophisticated tone, “Is it unreasonable that I might want to spend time with my little brother?”

“Yes!” The dark haired boy snapped, “You _never_ want to spend time with me and you certainly _never_ want to go on any of my ventures.” He seemed like he was about to continue, but his face changed to surprise and comprehension as his lips formed a devious _'O'._ “You're trying to make it up to _Gavin_...”

“It is _Greg_.” Mycroft hissed, “And I am most certainly not! I have nothing to apologize for.”

“Of course not...because calling the man poor didn't set him off...”

“Sherlock...be very careful about what you say next. It could affect the freedoms you _and_ your companion are enjoying...”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John trotted over to clap a hand over his mouth. He gave the boy a pointed and somewhat fearful look. He didn't want to be stuck back in the stable alone again. Sherlock stared at John for a moment, his expression carefully blank until he nodded to indicate he'd hold his tongue on the matter. The young centaur hesitantly removed his hand and looked away, trying to brush off the fear he'd felt at the threat, which was probably more empty than anything 

The young man watched him, very aware that his companion had been frightened by the threat...and Sherlock felt a twinge in his chest. He reached over to lay a hand on the centaur's tense back and tentatively stroke his fingers over the soft golden coat. Over the past two weeks, John had shown remarkable tolerance for Sherlock's touch...so long as he didn't touch the brand. The centaur lowered his head and shifted uncertainly, giving Sherlock a glance out of the corner of his eye. Neither said a word until Mrs. Hudson returned with their lunch tucked into a pack for John to carry. 

“Do you just hide these things from Mycroft?” Sherlock asked as he examined the unique pack John was settling on his back, it was clearly made for a centaur’s use. It had various straps to keep it from sliding off or backwards, none of which were needed if it was for a horse where it could be simply fixed to a saddle.

Mrs. Hudson just smiled and helped John get it settled just right. “Now you boys have fun and don't fight with your brother, Sherlock.” Giving John an affectionate pat on the rump.

The centaur smiled and blushed, heading back around the house with Sherlock...who was mumbling about how he never fought with his brother. John just shook his head and led the way, coming around the corner just in time to see Mycroft exiting the house. He was readjusting his hat, looking less than pleased to have to go out riding, as he headed towards the stables. 

Lestrade was exiting with a rather shaggy looking horse, more similar to the kind of horses the ranch hands rode than the refined horses he and Sherlock had ridden before. This, as Sherlock had come to know, was Lestrade's own horse. The large black and white paint mare was not any specific breed, according to Lestrade. She was, Sherlock had been told, some sort of draft horse...a horse meant to pull a plough and work a field She was thickset and slow, but certainly had the build to pull anything and everything. Lestrade also rode it. A testament to the fact that the tutor wasn't in the best financial state.

Mycroft's face changed as he observed Lestrade mounting his own horse, but he said nothing. As he approached the stable, a fine looking stallion with a beautifully long black mane was brought out for him. The ebony horse practically shined in the morning light, standing perfectly still as the man stepped up on a provided stool to mount. He looked proper and very precise as he settled in the saddle, while Lestrade looked rugged and far from proper.

It was an odd pairing.

Then again...John supposed he and Sherlock looked a bit odd too. A shaggy haired boy on an old sorrel mare, next to him a spotted centaur...all in all they were a very strange group. John wasn't sure what to make of it, nor was Sherlock apparently. He just made a short huffing sound and motioned for Lestrade to lead the way to this pond. The man said nothing and headed for a gate in the back, which opened onto the larger section of Mycroft's land that had more a feeling of wilderness than fenced property. It was still fenced...which was probably the only reason John was allowed to go with them. And Mycroft and Lestrade would be watching him...so that was enough deterrent not to try and run off. As much as Lestrade fought to get him freedoms, John didn't doubt the man would run him down if he tried to escape. Besides...John was never one to jump fences.

Mycroft and Lestrade walked ahead of them, saying nothing to each other still, leaving the young pair to follow in silence. Sherlock was obviously plotting something and John was more than happy to walk beside Sherlock's calming presence. Mycroft cast them occasional glances every few minutes and Lestrade glared at him every time he did. The first few times Mycroft ignored him, but eventually he paused to glare back. The next time Mycroft started to glance back, Lestrade reached over to knock his hat off his head rather sharply. It fluttered to the ground between their horses silently as the small group pulled to a sudden stop.

“ _Stop it.”_ Lestrade hissed through clenched teeth.

Mycroft stared at Lestrade, his face totally blank...but his eyes blazed with surprise and something like rage. Lestrade stared back, though his face showed shock...like he hadn't meant to actually hit the hat, but he wasn't at all sorry he'd done it.

“Pick it up.” Mycroft hissed, not looking away from the tutor.

Lestrade straightened and shook his head.

The elder Holmes brother's lips thinned, “Pick. It. Up. Now.” He all but growled through clenched teeth.

The man looked down to the hat and then to Mycroft, it almost seemed that he was about to dismount to pick it up. Instead...he applied the gentlest pressure to the side of his mare, making her step right on the hat and crush it into the ground. Sherlock's brother tensed, his very careful composure starting to crumble as Lestrade resumed glaring at him smugly. 

“That's it!” Mycroft snapped as he made to reach for Lestrade.

The tutor dug his heels into the sides of his mare, sending her into the fastest lope she could manage from a standing start. Mycroft's stallion took very little coaxing to give chase, leaving Sherlock and John staring and a bit confused...and amused. 

“He's not going to get far...” Sherlock observed of Lestrade, given his horse was quite a bit slower than Mycroft's.

“Maybe.” John said, able to see Mycroft wasn't urging his horse to overtake the other, as he walked over the the mangled hat and nudged it with his hoof. “Guess that means we'll have to the find the pond ourselves?”

Sherlock nudged his mount by John as he pointed into the distance, “It's that way.” He declared.

John fell into step beside him as they continued on their walk, once more settling for silence since it suited them during the day. They usually reserved most of their talks for the night after all and Sherlock usually spent most to the days in his own head, so John had become accustomed to the unusual silence. Occasionally, they would look to see if Mycroft or Lestrade were in sight, most often they weren't. So, they continued to walk in the direction of the pond. John was beginning to wonder if Sherlock actually knew where they were going, as it was getting hot as the day wore on, when the clear looking pond finally came into view over a final small hill. 

The centaur smiled and trotted towards it, stopping on the bank to set aside the pack and starting to pull off his shirt as Sherlock arrived. 

“What are you doing?” The young man asked.

“It's hot.” John replied simply, hesitating before he pulled off his leather collar to toss it down in the pile. He then waded into the cool water with a content sigh. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, dismounting to let the mare graze and drink. The centaur looked back at Sherlock and frowned, “Aren't you hot?”

“Yes, but...I'm not getting in a filthy pond...” Sherlock mumbled.

“It's not filthy!”

“It is!”

John huffed and stomped his foot, sending a spray of cold water towards Sherlock. It was hardly more than a sprinkle, but if one were to judge from Sherlock's reaction it might as well have been a flood. He gave John an incredulous look, the centaur just smiled innocently and shrugged.

“I will not be pulled into your childish display...” Sherlock began, but was interrupted when John sent another, larger, spray to hit him in the face. He sputtered indignantly as John giggled and folded his arms in a very impish manner. “John...” 

“Sherlock.” 

The dark haired boy pointed at John with a half scowl, for a moment the centaur worried he might have made Sherlock mad...but a smirk curled at his lips slowly. “You'll pay for that.” He said as he rapidly began to shed clothing, not the least bit bother by his nudity it seemed, and lunged into the pond after the now laughing centaur.

John headed into the deeper water, his back submerged, which meant Sherlock had to swim to catch up. The young man did so swiftly, catching John by surprise when he swatted a cascade of water onto the centaur's head. John flicked his tail as he turned to retaliate. Sherlock ducked under the surface and John felt the young man brush under his belly before he popped up on his other side. John caught another hearty splash in the side of his head before he could move. He sputtered and sent a wave towards the laughing young man before hopping away to deeper water still.

“Get back here!” Sherlock called as he gave chase, “You're cheating!”

“I am not! It's not my fault I can still touch th—” John's remark was sharply cut off when the bottom went, unexpectedly, from under his hooves and caused him to disappear under the surface of the water.

Sherlock laughed a moment, but frowned when John didn't immediately resurface. “John?” He swam hesitantly towards the spot the centaur had vanished. Before he'd made it a few feet towards the place, he was suddenly being lifted, just slightly, out of the water on the back of John. The centuar was laughing brightly as he coughed up a bit of water. Sherlock laughed, high-centred on his companion's back, and shoved at the centaur in a good natured way. 

“Don't scare me like that...”

John smiled back at him gently, “Were you really worried about me?”

Sherlock readjusted himself so he wasn't so precariously balanced on his friend's back, “Of course not, don't be silly. I told you...”

“Yes, you don't believe in sentiment.” John rolled his eyes as he looked to the shore. “Do you suppose Mrs. Hudson packed us some of those biscuits with the little white bits?”

“Mycroft's favourite? I do hope so...he won’t eat them since he's put on weight and I do so love watching his face when you and I eat them all in front of him.” Sherlock smirked, slipping back into the cool water to head for the shore. 

The young centaur followed, shaking the water from his coat as he stepped out onto dry land and reached for the pack to see what lunch had been packed for them. Sherlock redressed, but he barely pulled his trousers back on when Lestrade and Mycroft appeared at the top of the low hill. Mycroft's mangled hat was perched on Lestrade's head and both were trying their very hardest not to look at each other or smile. It seemed they were still fighting, but they were on their way to mending things...judging by the dirt on Mycroft's clothing the chase part had ended with a bit of a bang. Lestrade raised a brow as he gave both soaking wet youngsters a look.

“You know...a nice dip sounds like just what I need. It's a trifle hot, isn't it?” The tutor declared casually as he started to dismount.

Mycroft gave him a disapproving look, similar to the one Sherlock had given John prior to their own little frolic. “I believe I've had enough excitement for one day...” Muttering as he slowly dismounted and approached Lestrade to snatch back his hat.

Lestrade smirked, a mischievous and boyish glint reaching his eyes an instant before he picked Mycroft up and headed for the water. Mycroft protested rather loudly, but Lestrade paid him no mind as he headed right in and dragged Mycroft with him. Sherlock and John settled on the shore to watch the ensuing fight with amusement. Mycroft looked like he really wanted to drown Lestrade and John questioned lending the man a hand, but Sherlock assured him that Mycroft wouldn't go so far. Or so he was reasonably certain he wouldn't.

“Enough! _Enough!_ I'm sorry! You win!” Lestrade finally sputtered through a lungful of water and laughter.

Mycroft huffed, but a small grin tugged at his lips. “I...I'm sorry as well, Greg.”

The tutor shrugged and offered Mycroft a hand as they headed out of the pond, “Bygones.” He assured as he glanced to John and Sherlock, “So, what's for lunch?”


	6. Caring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say how very sorry I am that I haven't updated in so long. I had a few life issues that came up that made it hard for me to update as fast as I would like, not to mention I had a rather fatal writer's block appear. I needed to do a few random drabbles and focus on one story for a time until I could manage to work this back into my life. I do hope you all still enjoy this and I promise I will finish this story. I never leave anything unfinished and I promise I'll update as often as I can. My life has just changed rather drastically lately, but I have a handle on things (for the moment). So, bear with me and enjoy a short little update. I will try to get some more up in the next few days! You're all lovely, thank you for your patience.

Sherlock leaned in close as John knelt down at the base of an old tree, examining a plain looking white flower. It was a flower that Sherlock had seen hundreds of times, but never paid much attention to it. John seemed to regard it rather sacredly, stroking the petals and mumbling something under his breath before he turned to his dark haired companion. 

“This flower...it's very good for a lot of things. I've used it to soothe fevers and ease stings...just to name a few.” John flicked his tail and rolled back his long sleeves so he could work his fingers into the soil around the small plant.

“It has to be kept alive, though, I take it?” Sherlock asked as he watched eagerly.

The young centaur nodded and carefully worked a clump of dirt slowly into his hands, making sure the tiny flower was well secured within. “Where I'm from these flowers are very rare, yet here I've never seen so many in one place.” 

Sherlock didn't think the small group of about three flowers counted as _'so many',_ but he kept it to himself as he started to dig up a second one under John's watchful gaze. Sherlock found the dirt cool and damp, carefully working his nimble fingers around the delicate roots. The tiny white flower, with six petals shaped in a sort of star, wobbled as it was freed from the earth. Sherlock lifted it to eye level, examining it as if it would reveal its mysterious healing qualities to him under careful scrutiny. It sounded too good to be true, but if it did do what John said...perhaps it could be concentrated in a serum. Sherlock smiled as several experiments came to mind.

“We will have to test it...” He murmured out loud.

John tilted his head just slightly, shaking his head and smiling. “Don't just go out and get stung for no reason, Sherlock.” He scolded lightly. 

The lanky young man shot John a withering glance that said _'I'll get stung if I so choose to.'_ But he sighed and carefully palmed the clump of loose earth in his hand, “Spoil sport...”

“And don't test it on your brother.”

“You are no fun at all!”

John laughed and slowly gained his feet, shaking himself off and turning to start back towards the pond. Sherlock fell into step beside him. “John...?”

“Yes?” The centaur said as he turned slightly to observe the thoughtful lad next to him. 

“The pendant that my brother took from you...what was it? It wasn't just...sentimental. There was something to it that was...more important.” Sherlock had asked about it dozens of times before, but John usually brushed him off.

It seemed like that was to be the case again, the blonde centaur sighing heavily and looking away. Silence hung between them, broken only by the gentle _clip-clop_ of John's hooves over the hard-packed path. “It's a special token. There are few like it...only the herd leaders have them. They are meant to mark safe places...to lead us there even if we've never been there before. In a time when my kind weren't so...despised...they were used to travel from one territory to another. Now...they mark what few places we can safely go to to hide and be free.” John sighed softly, “They are split into parts...in this case that pendant was one half, the other was either placed nearby or given to someone very trusted...”

The lanky teen frowned slowly, “I hardly think here is a safe place...”

“I know.”

“Perhaps it's defective.”

“ _ **It's not!”**_ John snapped rather abruptly, stomping his hooves sharply. A brief flash of indignant rage passing over his face before he looked stricken by his outburst and stammered, “I-I'm sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head, merely filing the reaction away for future reference. “So...did you actually make it all the way to this safe area?”

John shrugged as he started to walk again. “I don't really know. I got caught before I could check.” By the way he said it, however, Sherlock was relativity certain John was lying.

The shaggy haired boy thought back to the first day John had been brought in, his brother had exchanged words with the centaur. Perhaps Mycroft knew the answers...perhaps Mycroft knew a lot more than he was telling Sherlock. It was frustrating, because Mycroft was one of the few people able to keep some secrets from him...for now. The young man decided not to press his luck with John, the centaur had a tendency to shut down if asked too much about his personal life...which Sherlock found acceptable given how John appeared to have been treated. So, they fell into their usual silence...it was comfortable and it was content.

However, it was shattered by a rather unexpected, and extremely distressed, bellow from Lestrade.

“ _ **SHERLOCK! JOHN!”**_

The youngsters spared each other a glance before sprinting towards the sounds of the shouting, breaking into the hilly clearing which they'd left only a short time ago. Lestrade was hanging onto his mount and Mycroft's, both of which were prancing and snorting. Their eyes were wide and the tutor was struggling to hold onto them to keep them from bolting, as Sherlock's mare must have.

On the ground, not so far away, was Mycroft. He appeared to be in some pain, clutching his wrist rather tightly...too tightly. His face was pale and his composure was a forced calm. The man was clearly concerned, but for the most part appeared alright. Sherlock was perplexed as he slowed, a question forming on his lips just as John baulked and stopped sharply.

The centaur’s nostrils flared and his eyes went wide, prancing back a few paces. “Snake.” He hissed, a tinge of fear trilling in his tone. 

Lestrade cursed as his horse ripped the reins from his hands, leaving him to deal with the unruly black horse. The stallion wasn't keen on lingering when both its companions had run off over the hill for home. But if Lestrade lost that horse...all hope was lost.

Mycroft swallowed, his lips curving down slightly. He made a subtle gesture towards a patch of long grass. “The horses were grazing...I went to pick up a rein and...” The elder Holmes sighed and shook his head, seemingly very aware of just how dire his situation was becoming with each passing second. 

John shifted uncomfortably as Sherlock moved towards his brother, perhaps showing the first signs of concern for his brother...in Holmes fashion. “That was very unwise of you, brother.”

In response, Mycroft just nodded. “Sherlock, I need to get him back to the house right away so I can send for the doctor in town.” Lestrade said, cutting into their odd exchange.

“The doctor is too far, Greg.” Mycroft said dryly, but the tutor ignored him.

He motioned Sherlock to help his brother onto the prancing horse. Sherlock didn't argue, going oddly silent as he calculated the odds of his brother surviving long enough for the doctor to arrive. He doubted very much that Mycroft would...depending on the type of snake of course, but by the sound of things it wasn't good. Sherlock helped Mycroft up so the man could mount his less than pleased horse. The stallion was even less impressed when the tutor added his weight behind Mycroft. Then, without a backwards glance, Lestrade was heading the animal over the hill as fast as it would go.

“Town _is_ too far...” John murmured faintly, still shifting uneasily as he looked to Sherlock.

“I know.” The boy nodded, the doctor was also not very reliable. “What choice do we have?”

John frowned, then glanced to the flower still in his hands. “We need more...” He said softly, looking to the lanky lad, “There were more...”

Sherlock shifted, then nodded as he handed John the flower he held. “I can find them.” He assured the shifting centaur, who nodded and started to quickly wrap the gathered plants for transport. 

The young man didn't linger, hurrying back towards the place they'd left the other flower. He wasn't certain about how he felt in that moment...a strange sort of void had opened up in his chest. He staggered over uneven ground, nearly landing right on top of the flower in question. Staring at it and hearing Mycroft's voice in his head. 

_ Caring is not an advantage. _

Did he care about his older brother? Was it possible that he did actually care enough to worry about his possible death? Sherlock shook the thought from his mind as he worked the small plant from the soil, before looking for another one. He searched as long as he dared, only managing to turn up one more plant...which was slightly wilted. 

With the two plants in hand, Sherlock returned to his companion. He arrived in time to see John lifting a limp snake from the ground by the tail. It looked very dead, but John seemed uneasy about touching it even so. The young centaur snorted softly and hesitantly slipped the body into the bags he'd strapped back over his withers. He perked as Sherlock jogged over and held out the required plants.

“Thanks.” John offered, a brief look of uncertain disappointment crossing his features before both disappeared into the depths of the bags. 

Sherlock knew what that look meant...but he said nothing on it, gesturing for John to go. The centaur turned towards the hill, starting to go after the elder pair. But he paused to glance back at Sherlock. The shaggy haired boy looked...lost. His face was blank and his eyes were empty. Not that Sherlock had made much effort to express the standard range of emotions, but this odd stillness was unsettling. John wanted to take off after the injured man, but he could hardly leave Sherlock to walk back when he was in such a strange state. Almost like...shock.

John shifted and held out his hand, “Get on.” The young man frowned, staring at John as if he didn't understand what he'd just said. “Get on...now!” They didn't exactly have a lot of time to discuss what was happening.

Long fingers wrapped around his palm an instant after the sharp command and John hauled hard to pull Sherlock from the ground. The boy's long legs clamped uneasily over his back and lithe arms scrambled to find purchase as John shifted under the new weight. Once the lanky young man seemed secure...John trotted up the hill...and then broke into the fastest gallop he dared with his uncertain passenger. John kept a firm hold of Sherlock's arm, which wrapped around his chest, as he hurried towards the large estate house he couldn't see yet.

Sherlock struggled to keep a hold on the racing body suddenly bouncing him across the vast pasture. He'd never gone so fast...and he certainly never thought he'd ever go so fast! Not to mention he was astride a creature which not only had a mind of its own...but happened to be a good companion. When John jumped a small gulley, Sherlock clamped his eyes shut and pressed the side of his face into the centaur's shoulder. He felt John's grip on his arm tighten, to reassure Sherlock he had him...and the shaggy haired boy felt oddly comforted. Not enough to open his eyes of course. 

Instead, Sherlock focused on the rasp of breath he could hear as John panted. It was a strong huffing sound which slowly built up with every stride. The exertion of the pace and the added weight probably didn't help, but John sounded strong...like he could run like this for days. The thrum of the rapid strides a steady staccato in the background. Sherlock swallowed hard and gripped his companion a little tighter as he felt a rather uncharacteristic sting of tears forming behind his eyelids.

He _was_ upset that his brother was facing down death. He _was_ upset that he might have to go back to England because of it. He _did_ care after all. It was entirely unwelcome and he struggled to rein in his surge of emotions as they drew closer to the estate. The last thing he needed was for anyone to see him showing he cared for his brother...


	7. Long Night Ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really not good at updating fast. I'm sorry. I really am trying. My life has really just been crazy right now and I'm struggling to keep up. But I will keep writing! I promise! So here's a little something to keep you all interested!

“This is really very unnecessary.” Mycroft's tone low as the tutor helped him up the porch steps. “I am capable of walking...” Which was a complete lie, Mycroft had almost hit his knees when he'd dismounted a few moments ago. 

Lestrade puffed and renewed his grip around the man's waist, “Shut up.” He growled, “You can hardly stand, let alone walk!” 

The elder Holmes brother frowned subtly at the stressed note in Lestrade's voice. “Greg—”

“ _No!_ No, don't you even start that!” Lestrade snapped, his voice cracking as he helped Mycroft through the front doors and towards his study, explaining what had happened to Mrs. Hudson along the way. Slowly, the tutor sat Mycroft in his chair. He knelt next to Mycroft, placing the back of his hand to the man's pale forehead. “God...”

“ _Greg...”_ Mycroft sighed, pulling his head away. The world spun out of focus for a moment, but he managed to lay a clammy hand on Lestrade's arm, “You need to...Sherlock will...” He took a breath to steady his racing heart, hearing the thudding in his ears was unsettling. “Look after him.”

“Like hell I will.” Lestrade hissed, his hand coming to rest over Mycroft's, “You're not leaving me with him.”

Mycroft scoffed and leaned his head back, of course the tutor would say that. Of course he'd believe Mycroft could be saved, but the elder Holmes brother could feel sweat starting to bead on his brow. He wasn't going to make it, even if he survived long enough for the doctor to arrive...the old fool wouldn't be able to help him. He was an incompetent medical man at best.

“Greg...I am sorry...about earlier. Really. I meant no offence...”

“I swear if you don't stop blabbering non-sense right now I'm going to―”

“What?”

The tutor glared, but in the most concerned and tender way possible. A response was partway to his lips when a commotion in the yard drew him, reluctantly, away from the ailing Mycroft. Lestrade moved to the large study window, his jaw dropping at the sight that greeted him. It was the blonde centaur, galloping into the estate yard, with his young pupil clinging to his back! Lestrade could see the exertion on John's face, the sweat appearing on his flanks. He probably hadn't run so hard in weeks, let alone with any sort of weight on his back. Even though Sherlock was a slight boy...John wasn't exactly the largest centaur Lestrade had ever met.

John jerked to a rough stop too close to the porch for Lestrade's liking, kicking up dust and gravel, and Sherlock all but launched himself off the creature's back. The young man staggered, his curls in disarray as he struggled to regain his composure. John reached out to steady the young man, or perhaps to steady himself...he looked rather ragged too. Sherlock could barely ride a horse, riding a centaur at a fast pace over a long period of time certainly wasn't going to do him any favours. The lad took a brief second, glancing back to the centaur with what passed for Holmes-like gratitude, which was enough time for Mrs. Hudson to appear and then he launched himself up the steps and into the house. The land lady was nodding and turning to John, but Lestrade was forced to look away when Sherlock all but burst into the study with enough force to startle the very bewildered tutor.

“Have you sent for the doctor?” Sherlock asked of Lestrade, barely breaking stride or looking to his brother.

“Yes.” Lestrade answered, “Of course I did.”

Sherlock huffed and grabbed a low table, shoving it to one side. “Waste of time.”

“Agreed.” The elder Holmes brother mumbled as he watched with mild disinterest, until Sherlock started shoving at more furniture...like he was clearing the room. “Redecorating, _brother mine_?” Mycroft crooned from behind his desk, clearly curious and a bit bothered with his little brother's unusual actions.

The boy just scoffed and shoved another chair aside, “Making room, _brother dear_.” 

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and his chin lifted slightly, _“No.”_

Lestrade stared between the two uncertainly, feeling he was missing half of a conversation. “No? No what?”

“For a tutor you are rather obtuse at times... _George._ ” The younger Holmes scowled as he started to pull at Mycroft's desk. 

“ _Greg.”_ He corrected lightly, “For the record, some of use can't read minds...like you two.” The tutor hissed, irritation flaring in his tone as much as confusion.

Sherlock paused in his actions, taking in Lestrade as if he was debating letting him have all the promised torments he'd held back...or simply wondering how Lestrade couldn't understand what was happening. Before either could speak, Mycroft took over the conversation.

“The centaur...” Sherlock shot him a glare, “ _John_...is a healer, Greg. Sherlock means to let him in my house, _my study_ , to have him help me. I do not want a centaur, _any_ centaur, helping me.”

Lestrade stared for a long time at Mycroft, his mouth opening and closing a handful of times as he tried to grasp what he was hearing. “Mycroft Holmes would rather _die_ than accept help from a competent healer...all because the healer is a _centaur_? You have got to be _joking_! He can help you!”

“I do not want _its_ help!” Mycroft snapped, kicking over a nearby footstool in clear frustration, taking a deep breath as a very obvious bead of sweat trickled down his brow.

Silence, dark and oppressive, descended on the study. 

Lestrade and Sherlock just stared at Mycroft. Sherlock with utter disapproval and disgust; Lestrade simply shocked. 

The soft clip of steel shod hooves over hardwood drew their attention, all eyes turning to observe the young centaur stooping as he stepped carefully into the study. “Well, to be honest, Master Holmes, _it_ doesn't want to help you either.” John's voice gentle and carefully neutral as he approached, “ _It_ will, however, help Sherlock. Which means, unfortunately for both of us, _its_ going to help you, whether you like it or not.”

Mycroft's look was one of disgust and hatred, it promised retribution for John entering his home and for daring to speak so impenitently to him of all people. Lestrade raised a brow, impressed with John standing up to the rather terrifying elder Holmes brother. Of course, he judged the wisdom of such an act, surely Mycroft wouldn't let it go for long. 

“ _Fine.”_ Was all Mycroft hissed, trying to hold his anger and irritation even though he was clearly becoming more ill with every passing moment. 

John said nothing as he turned to the nearby desk, narrowly missing a chair, and started to unpack the bags. Placing the delicate plants down first before upending the bag with almost a comical caution...as if he feared the snake may come back to life. It's body merely thumped onto the desktop and remained motionless. John was reluctant to handle it, it was a primal fear deeply embedded in his kind. Another such fear was being in a tight place with little means to escape easily, like Mycroft's study...or the house in general. The floors were slick under his feet and the halls were tight, every doorway was too short. Every instinct that John possessed screamed at him to leave as fast as he could, but he stayed stubbornly and ignored better judgement...all because he cared about one lanky young man staring at him in his own hopeful way.

The centaur ignored Mycroft's scathing glares, motioning for the man's hand to take a look at the bite. He feared Mycroft might refuse, but one hard glare from Lestrade seemed enough to cause the man to relinquish the limb in question. Two tiny puncture marks, bloodied and raised, shone like bright markers on the man's pale skin. John hesitantly turned the hand from side to side, not liking how cold and clammy the man felt...nor the clear unnatural paleness, though Mycroft was naturally so pale, of his tone. The young centaur probed the swollen flesh gently, sucking breath between his teeth when his touch drew a tiny wince from the elder brother's careful control. John flicked his tail, turning to his work with an uncertain look in his eyes and speedy hands. 

“It's not good.” Sherlock stated.

“Of course it is not good, Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed, “It is rather bad, actually.”

John couldn't help but nod, “It is.” He mumbled as he started to stuff various leaves and other plants they'd gathered into his cheek, very much aware his actions would certainly not go over well with Mycroft. He could sense Lestrade stiffen with confused shock, but he could see the utter disgust rising to Mycroft's paling cheeks. Sweat was starting to bead on the elder Holmes brother's forehead, but he refused to show signs of weakening...or tried to. 

John chewed the wadding mass of plants, hating the taste and loathing the sting of the combination on his tongue. It was the best way, however, to breakdown the material faster. Centaur saliva was technically more suited to breakdown plant matter than humans after all.

“I certainly hope _that_ is not meant for me to consume.” Mycroft hissed, his voice starting to crack slightly with clear pain. 

John had to give the man some credit for being able to keep such a calm demeanour during a crisis, but he nodded solemnly as he gave the wad another thoughtful chew and glanced to Sherlock, “Water. Lots of water.” He mumbled as he glanced to the snake still on the desk.

Sherlock didn't ask why, just taking off to fill John's request...leaving him with the two elder men. Lestrade drew closer as Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the older Holmes brother was struggling to keep his face schooled through his growing discomfort. With a growing sense of urgency, John reluctantly reached for a dull, almost useless, knife that Mycroft had allowed him to use for his plant gathering. With the blade in hand, the young centaur cut the head off the slowly stiffening snake. Its body had cooled, but the blood still oozed rapidly onto the desktop. A grunt for Mycroft said the man was keeping count of all the things John was doing, a reminder that John would pay for his actions later. Even so, John continued chewing the leaves and plant parts as he dabbed a rather liberal amount of the blood around Mycroft's bite. With that done, he carefully spat the chunky green paste onto another odd leaf, one that was silvery and soft to the touch, and resisted the urge to pick the tiny remains off his tongue. He cupped the leaf rather reverently as he motioned for Mycroft's hand once more. Though the man was reluctant, he offered up the bitten limb and held back a disgusted cringe as John applied just a little of the unappealing vegetation mixture to the bite. The young centaur pressed another silvery leaf to the top and motioned Lestrade a littler closer. 

“A little pressure, please.” John said, indicating the tutor to put his hand over the wound.

The elder man hesitated before he wrapped a rough hand around Mycroft's rather smooth one. “What's the water for?”

“To keep Sherlock busy.” The young centaur mumbled as he plucked all of the delicate looking white flowers from their stems and added them to the paste that remained in his palm, carefully wrapping the leaf before as he held it out to his very reluctant patient.

“I told you...” The man began, this time his voice tight with pain.

Lestrade cut him off with a scowl and took it from John, “And I told you! You're not leaving me alone with your brother!” Taking Mycroft's uninjured hand and forcefully putting the wadded vegetation in his palm.

Mycroft's nostrils flared with momentary disgust, he looked like he wanted to say something cruel...or hit Lestrade at the very least; but a slow sigh escaped him as he nodded. The young centaur watched the exchange, pleased to have Lestrade there to help him with the rather intimidating, yet not so intimidating, man. Mycroft reluctantly put the small leafy bundle into his mouth. The corner's of his lips twitched down and he swallowed hard. 

“It's not the most appetizing, but it's all I can do.” John offered, “The fever will come now...and if it breaks before morning...you'll be fine.”

“And if it doesn't?” Lestrade asked as he glanced between the ailing Holmes and centaur.

John looked at him and then away, “I can't give you anything for the fever. It's just part of the healing. There will be, should be, pain. It's going to feel like your blood is...”

“On fire?” Mycroft suggested when John lapsed into silence for a moment. His voice was strained now and his discomfort was obvious. “Yes, it started that.”

“Can't you give him something?” Lestrade asked.

“No. I...I can't. I can only hope that this works. I can only hope that you, Master Holmes, are strong enough to last the night.” The centaur said faintly, looking to the study door as Sherlock arrived with a bucket of water. “You're going to want to bathe his brow and make him drink as often as he can stand.” John said with a flick of his tail as he started towards the study door to make a hasty exit, having done all he knew how to do after all. 

Sherlock set the bucket down rather abruptly and grabbed his sleeve as he moved by, stopping him. “Stay.” The boy said, “I...I mean...you're the healer, you can't leave, right?”

John fidgeted, very aware of Mycroft glaring at his back as he nodded slowly, “Right, I...” He was trying to think of a reason to leave without sounding rude, but Mrs. Hudson slipped into the room with an armful of blankets. 

“Just bringing in your blanket, John dear, since I imagine you'll be staying to take good care of Mycroft.”

John swallowed hard and nodded slowly, “Thank you, Ma'am.” He mumbled as he turned and carefully stepped back into the room.


	8. Sentimental Defence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry about not updating sooner! I'm a terrible person and I'm a terrible liar, I can't keep a deadline to save my life! Anyway, here's another little tidbit. I know there's still lot's of ground to cover, but I promise all in good time! So keep hanging in there, lovelies, because things are about to get very interesting very soon!

The study was blissfully silent as dawn arrived, its first golden rays spilling across the floor at a steady rate. The room was a mess...furniture moved in every which way and the floor scuffed beyond repair by John's shoes. Bodies littered the space like some sort of mass murder scene, minus the fact that these bodies weren't dead. Lestrade was snoring steadily on the floor. He was as close to Mycroft as he could be, without looking like he was too worried, and still holding his hand over Mycroft's injured one. Mycroft had been moved to the floor, where a comfortable sleeping area had been arranged, after he descended into the venomous madness. His mad ravings had lasted until only a few hours before sunrise, that was when his fever finally broke. A good sign that the man would recover...though he still rested uneasily. 

John was settled on the floor nearby his sick patient, but sleep evaded him. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to join the rest of those sleeping in the room, but fear of missing something critical kept him awake. Not to mention the younger Holmes brother was curled against his side, his long fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like a life line. The boy had been very silent through the night, watching John work and keeping to himself...only once Mycroft settled and Lestrade succumbed to unconsciousness had he shown any signs of life.

The tears Sherlock had shed were hot and heavy, his frustration was clear. He wanted to remain distant from emotions, like his brother, but he wasn't able to manage it when his own brother faced death. He did care. So John had offered what comfort he could, letting the lad lay against him until he'd finally fallen silent. John assumed he was asleep...his breaths were low and even against his back. 

The subtle curling of long fingers over his rump gave John pause. 

“Don't tell anyone...about _that_ thing...” Sherlock said softly.

John shook his head gently, “What thing?” As if he had no clue, he felt Sherlock huff a tiny laugh without humour.

“Especially not Mycroft...”

“Never crossed my mind, Sherlock.”

The young man made a soft noise against John's back, turning his face to observe the centaur. His long fingers traced over a faint white mark on the centaur's golden coat, one he'd never seen before, hidden under the long tails of John's shirt. “What's this from?” The boy asked softly, he'd thought he'd catalogued all of John's scars, but perhaps he'd missed some.

John sighed, lifting the light body with a deep inhale and exhale, before he turned tired eyes over his shoulder to give Sherlock a sad glance. “It's from the mine.” His eyes betraying the pain and sorrow that haunted him. “From the harness.”

“You...were in a mine?”

John took a deep breath, looking away again. “I didn't take well to domestic training.” He murmured softly as he subconsciously rubbed at his neck, which Sherlock knew bore terrible scars under the leather collar he now wore. “So, my master sent me to work in a mine...he hoped it might break the rebellious streak I had. He wanted complete servitude...something I suppose I never gave him.” The centaur shrugged slowly, “Mines are no place for centaurs, domestic or otherwise...it's too dark and too enclosed. In any case, I spent a handful of years in one, pulling carts from one tunnel to another...pulling bodies to a pit for disposal.”

Sherlock frowned and placed a lithe hand on the centaur’s withers, taking John in with an unintentionally critical look. This time, Sherlock noticed the subtle details that told the story of John's life in the mine. His stout legs bore subtle bumps from the battering they had taken over sharp rocks, he always did have the tiniest imperfection in his stride. It was his right hind leg, he would hold it up when he thought no one could see. He'd become very good at hiding whatever that problem was. And of course, there were the tiny white patches of hair throughout his otherwise golden coat, which did not go along with his spotted rump. These white scars appeared on his shoulders and under his belly. They were the marks left by a harness, which he'd probably never been allowed to remove, that had been ill fitting and too tight. Sherlock had never thought much of them, given how unique his companion’s coat colour was, but now he reached to hesitantly touch one. The young centaur’s skin twitched at the light touch, Sherlock doubted it actually hurt, but the memory of the pain probably would never go away. The twitch was and involuntary action that made John glance apologetically at Sherlock.

“You escaped from the mines.” Sherlock said softly as he glanced to another faint scar. “How?”

John took a shaking breath and looked towards Mycroft, checking that the man was still alright. “There was a fire...it burned the timbers and caused a collapse. There was a lot of chaos. I was lucky, I was working higher up...when the panic hit us...I managed to get swept out with the crowd and I just...kept going.” 

Sherlock felt as though the centaur was withholding certain details, but he didn't press as John was giving him more information than he'd ever done before. It was probably due to the exhaustion, his walls were down and his will to say no was weakened. Instead of trying to push his luck, on what had turned into a very emotional night for the pair of them, he opted to silently catalogue the rest of John's scars amongst his golden spotted coat, trying hard to discern which were just spots and which were in fact scars. 

The young man traced his long fingers over another scar, being gentle with his questing touches. It seemed to soothe John, his head bowing slowly as his breaths began to slow. He was comforted by Sherlock's contact. He felt protected, even with Mycroft only a breath away. Perhaps that was why he let his guard down and revealed things to the young man, perhaps John felt like Sherlock was...his _herd_. From what the boy gathered, John didn't know his family. He'd been sold too young to know his mother and his father had never been in the picture. No herd had ever claimed him, probably due to his odd colours, which did make him stick out a bit.

As the centaur clearly began to doze, the long night finally catching up with him, Sherlock spoke softly. “John...?”

“Mm...?” John mumbled, his head perking and tail flicking with just a small amount of irritation. 

“Would you like to stay here...with me?” 

The tired centaur stiffened, seeming to jerk back into the waking world in fits and starts. How was he supposed to respond to that? Of course he'd like to stay with Sherlock! The boy was kind and fascinating and enjoyed John's company without needing him to perform tricks or acts of subservience. The estate was vast and safe, so long as he stayed on Mycroft's good side; which, currently, he was not. And Mrs. Hudson was probably the nicest cook he'd ever met, practically feeding him to the point of bursting. It was an ideal home for a domestic centaur, but...John couldn't stay.

John belonged to someone else.

Someone else who was due to arrive at some point to do business with Mycroft and take John “home”.

Before the golden centaur could voice any of his brief thoughts, a soft moan from Mycroft caught his attention. The elder Holmes brother was coming around, blinking slowly and grimacing. It was a good sign that he was up and around, but he wouldn't be out riding or doing anything physical for a few days at least. Lestrade stirred as Mycroft began to move, blinking blearily into the dim dawn light spreading through the room.

John shifted as Sherlock slowly gained his feet, leaning over to check on Mycroft as he started to move more determinedly. He was pale and looked like he was in pain, but he was lucid and he wasn't dead. He even cast John a very irritated, but exhausted, glance that said he still wasn't pleased to have the centaur in his home.

“ _Greg.” Mycroft's_ voice was hoarse and rasped unpleasantly in John's ears, “You can...let go now.” He mumbled, glancing to the tutor's hand still wrapped around his own.

Lestrade just blinked, looked to his hand, and then carefully let go. “Sorry.” He grumbled, his own voice gravelly, as he rubbed at his neck and pushed himself up slowly. 

John reached over before Mycroft could protest, taking the bitten hand in his and carefully flicking at the crusted remains of the vegetation. The puncture marks were still very obvious and the area directly around them looked bruised, not to mention that the hand itself was a bit more swollen than he'd liked to admit. John frowned gently, probing the flesh while Mycroft tried to, weakly, pull it away in defiance. John let him have it back with a brusque huff. 

“Well?” Sherlock asked from over John's shoulder. 

“Should probably let some blood and apply something just to be sure...” He looked to Mycroft, who was all but glaring at him through a painful kind of haze.

The elder Holmes brother was contemplating a snarky response when a light knock interrupted him. All four directed their gazes to the study door, where Mrs. Hudson stood smiling at them. “Sorry to bother you boys, but the doctor has just arrived. Shall I send him in?”

“ _Yes.”_ Mycroft growled, sending the elderly lady scurrying to get the doctor. “Help me up!” He muttered at Lestrade, who made a face and started to work the very stiff man to his feet and towards his chair. 

As he started to settle in, the elder Holmes gave John a very pointed look. John gained his feet without another word, not needing to be told twice that he was no longer needed or wanted, and started to make a hasty exit. He was relieved to be able to get out of such a cramped area, but irritated with Mycroft's response. John had probably saved his life, the least Mycroft could do was let him continue to administer aid. Hot on his heels was Sherlock, the boy seemed back to his normal self with Mycroft's apparent wellness. 

The doctor, an older gentleman with thick spectacles, barely contained a gape and gasp at seeing John emerge from the study. He didn't bother to hide his contempt and his sense of superiority, raising his chin a little higher as if he expected John to grovel. “What beast medicine will I have to undo now?” He muttered under his breath, probably too low for anyone else but John to hear. “Well, step up!” He added in a louder tone, his command one that was used for horses that lagged too slowly for their master's likes. 

John snorted and flicked his tail, stopping so abruptly that Sherlock walked right into his rump. He remained mostly in the doorway, blocking the doctor rather obviously as a defiance rose in his eyes. The young centaur was no stranger to commands like those, he'd spent years learning them at the end of a whip. Normally, he would have ignored such a comment and given the man what he wanted. He would have ducked his head and mumbled something submissive, but John was tired. He'd worked hard all night to make sure that Mycroft would be fine and he wasn't about to take another condescending sneer or comment until he'd eaten or slept...or **both**. Sherlock shifted back a step, watching John uncertainly. The doctor seemed to get a little flustered when John not only stopped, but refused to show him any sign of recognition towards his rank. Red rose to the man's plump cheeks and he drew himself a little taller, which didn't even bring him to John's chest. 

“Step _up_!” The doctor snapped, taking what would have been a menacing step, if John wasn't already so irritable. The centaur snorted and stomped, striking his hooves against the soft wood floor loud enough to startle the impatient doctor. The man in question shifted on his feet, glaring to Sherlock as he gestured to John. “Move _it_.”

“ _His_ name is _John_.” Mycroft's voice was soft, but it startled the youths and the doctor. “He is not a creature to command, do so again and a number of telegraphs from you to your secret lover will be _discovered_ by your wife.” The absolute venom dripping from the painful tone dared the doctor to challenge him again.

John stared, uncertainly, over his shoulder at the glaring man. It was clear he still had very little love for centaurs, but perhaps he was warming up to a certain spotted one? 

Mycroft met his gaze evenly, “Would you please let the doctor through so you can rest, John?”

For a moment, the centaur stayed put. His anger and irritation was still very much intact, but he tamped it down with a flick of his tail. “Of course, Master Holmes.” Saying the name with actual respect instead of fear of retribution, before he stepped completely through the doorway and swept by the very silent doctor, who refused to look at John or Sherlock as they passed. 

Sherlock joined John's side before he could exit the home, “Mrs. Hudson will have made breakfast...” His words caused the centaur to pause and stare wistfully at the doors that would lead him outside. “B-but if you're tired I can tell her!” The boy added hastily, starting to turn away.

John sighed, his anger still hiding just under the surface, and turned slowly. “I'm famished, actually.” Forcing a tired smile, which turned rather genuine at the bright look Sherlock graced him with as he indicated John to follow him further into the house.

“I think the venom affected Mycroft's brain, defending someone isn't his usual style...” Sherlock began, his usual deductions of his brother's odd outburst easing some of John's foul mood as they resumed what qualified as normalcy; heading towards the luxurious scent of breakfast.


	9. My Wild Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm despicable. I can't make a deadline to save my life. I'm really busy this week, I swear I won't always be this busy...but a lot of stuff popped up that was unexpected. You're all really amazing if you keep hanging around for me, I love you all so much and I promise I will get this finished! Love you lovelies!

A few days had passed since the incident of the snake bite. Sherlock was pleasantly pleased to have a few days free of tutoring as Lestrade, for whatever reason, decided to stay with Mycroft and keep an eye on the grumpy man. John was kept informed if his condition changed, but the centaur seemed relativity certain that the man would recover just fine. He was also glad to have a few days to rest with his companion. Though to be honest, “rest” wasn't exactly what following after Sherlock could be called.

The young man, as ever, never slowed down and John happily trotted after his companion. He was more than happy to help him with his odd experiments, so long as it led to afternoons resting in the warm sun. It was becoming a bit of a routine for them, being busy all morning...and lazy all afternoon. They would venture to a comfortable hill, john would lay down and just lounge languidly. Sherlock would talk to him about various subjects and rest against his flank. Sometimes Sherlock draped over John's back...

It seemed, after their harrowing ride across the pasture, they'd grown inexplicably closer. Sherlock never asked to try again, but John occasionally though the might offer. One particular evening, John finally decided to try. It had been a very busy morning, chasing down various little bugs for some reason or other, and both youngsters were rather tired. As Sherlock stood, so they could return to the house to eat, John sat up slowly. 

“Would you...like a lift?” The golden centaur asked softly, rubbing the back of his neck uncertainly. 

Sherlock paused, mid-step, and turned to look back at the centaur still laying on the grass. He glanced towards the estate and then back. He thought of several reasons to refuse the offer, feeling that being allowed on John's back was something like a sacred privilege he didn't deserve, but he said: “I'd love one.” Mentally cursing his mouth for not politely refusing.

The centaur offered a tentative smile, a tinge of pink rising in his cheeks, before he gestured Sherlock to hop on. Sherlock hesitated, but found his lanky legs carrying him to his companion and tentatively straddling his strong back. When he seemed settled, John slowly rose...causing Sherlock to grip his waist for stability. John waited for Sherlock to settle again, taking a moment to adjust to the light weight on his back. He waited just a moment longer before he started to make his way towards the estate house. 

Sherlock sat tensely on John's back...for the first few moments. After John's steps fell into a steady rhythm, Sherlock began to relax just slightly...letting go of John slowly so he could...look around. Everything seemed so different from his new position. It was like seeing the world through John's eyes. An interesting perspective. The young man hadn't been privy to these thoughts the last time he'd been astride the centaur.

John walked steadily, but slowly, back to the Holmes' house, taking his time to enjoy the silent company that Sherlock offered. He could feel the boy looking around, his sense of wonder returning. The young lad was probably critically analyzing his new experiences, trying to fit them into a useful or not useful place. John hoped it would end up staying in the useful side of things. 

“I'm not fond of repetition...” Sherlock said softly, startling John slightly, “But...would you like to stay here?”

John could have called him a liar, since Sherlock repeated questions all the time to get answers, but the question made him sigh heavily. They'd been over this...they'd talked around it...and they'd discussed it vaguely. No matter what John wanted...he couldn't stay.

“I...” John sighed again, feeling Sherlock rise and fall on his back. He'd never once answered with what he wanted, he'd always avoided saying it. The centaur swallowed hard, “Yes. Sherlock, I would...but you know I can't.”

The young man thought a moment, “Why not, John? Mycroft has an ample amount of funds, certainly more than enough to purchase a centaur...” Sherlock paused again, as if calculting his next words, “He mentioned it would hardly put much of a dent in his profits. He's done rather well for the year after all and...” The boy stopped as John came to a standstill.

“Y-you...discussed this...with Mycroft?” John could hardly fathom the idea that Sherlock would ask such a thing, especially given how the man felt about him. “You asked...and...and...”

Sherlock's lithe hand stroked down his coat at his withers in a soothing manner, “Of course. What reason would he have to say no? You're the only reason I'm staying put and _behaving_ to his standards...” Sherlock shifted, “And...it's rather less boring when you're around.”

The blonde centaur felt a swell of emotions, wondering if it was possible that he'd won over the elder Holmes brother enough to stay. Would Mycroft really buy him and “free” him from his horrible owner? Would he let John stay with Sherlock forever? A tiny spark of hope at the though of having the estate as his home, a real home, wriggled into his chest.

“Mycroft has had nothing but good dealings with your...” Sherlock hesitated to say _Master_ , “...well you know...they do business often enough that this should be a simple matter of negotiation.” He shrugged gently, “I just needed to confirm it with you...in case you...didn't want to...”

John turned his head to glance at the young man staring up at him, “Why would I ever say no to you, you great git?” 

Sherlock shrugged, trying not to smile too much with the good news. “Mrs. Hudson will start to wonder where we are if you keep standing about like this...”

The centaur scoffed and flicked his tail, “Right, then we better pick up the pace! Hold on!”

 

* * *

 

John would have been almost too excited to sleep in his stables, if Mrs. Hudson hadn't stuffed him full of scrumptious food. His belly was full to bursting and thoughts of living with the Holmes' swirled pleasantly through his mind as he pawed at the bedding, making a comfortable nest for the night.

Sherlock flopped, dramatically, onto his own cot with a tremendously luxurious sigh. “I _hate_ sleeping.” He mumbled tiredly into his soft pillow.

John snorted and smiled, “Liar.” The young centaur yawned, plunking his body down without any sort of grace, “You like sleep...you just don't like it when Mycroft tells you to go to bed.” John mumbled, rubbing at his eyes and looking tiredly towards the stable doors. 

Someone usually came to chain him at night, but after waiting several long minutes...it seemed John was going to spend his first night at the Holmes estate without restraint. He blinked tiredly, deciding he was too exhausted to wonder where his usual chain handler was, and reached to douse the lantern.

Sherlock huffed next to him and started to burrow into his own blankets. “Shut up.” He mumbled tiredly.

The young centaur just smiled softly as darkness settled throughout the stable, “Goodnight to you too, Sherlock.”

It was _calm_.

It was _quiet_. 

It was _comfortable_. 

John closed his eyes, pulling warm blankets around his body as he settled in for a well deserved night of rest. Sherlock's gentle breaths nearby, muffled under layers of blankets, were a clear indication the boy was also well on his way to a much needed deep sleep. John's lips twitched into a pleased grin as his head dipped towards his chest and the dream realm crept up to claim him...

The slamming of the stable doors jolted John awake with a rude abruptness! No more than a few hours could have have passed as it was still pitch black...at least until someone flashed a bright lantern light into his eyes! John's eyes slammed shut as he struggled to stand, hampered by blankets and bodies that were suddenly pressed around him. Before he could manage anything, a harsh blow from, what had to be a club of some kind, cascaded into the side of his head! John's limp form hit the dirt floor without any consideration for where he fell. He saw stars behind closed lids and almost gave in the the tempting, forceful, pull of unconsciousness that was trying to consume him. The young centaur could feel the hot trickle of blood from a cut on his scalp somewhere in the massive throbbing bump...

However, his dazed mind recognized the sounds of a struggle next to him. His eyes flickered open,everything swimming in and out of focus in the swinging light of the lantern. The noises were coming from Sherlock. The lanky boy, from what John could see, was pinned against his cot by a large man sitting on his back! Sherlock was struggling to twist free, but he didn't have the strength or awareness to torque himself loose of his assailant. An assailant who started to twist rope around the young man's wrists while another applied a crude gag. Sherlock's legs kicked and a hoarse, indignant, noise of frustration worked through the thick gag that he dug his teeth into. His bright eyes were wide with a shadow of fear and drowsiness. He, like John, had been taken completely unaware.

John's heartbeat pounded in his ears, a grey haze started to appear on the edges of his vision. He struggled to remain conscious, barely moving as he watched the actions before his eyes in a surreal way. It was agony to just watch, his body betraying his desire to help.

“That should do.” Someone with a deep voice hissed.

That was clearly whatever cue they'd been waiting for, gathering up their prize and leaving John struggling to stay awake on the cold, hard, floor. One hefted the light boy over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes...it took all of John's willpower to watch and not give in to the hindering, soothing, pull of darkness.

Sherlock was screaming against the gag, kicking wildly and looking at his downed friend with horror. He managed to land a well placed knee in his captor's chest, which caused the hefty man to drop him with a short curse. Sherlock hit the floor, winced in pain, and struggled to scramble over to John. He didn't make it two steps before he was grabbed by his dark curls.

“Hold _on_ to him!”

Sherlock's face was twisted in pain, but that hardly stopped him trying to kick out again. A shadowy man tripped the youth up after the young man manged to land a few bruising blows, sending him sprawling once more. 

“Tie his legs! _Hurry up!_ ”

John's heartbeat tripled in pace as he watched, with great difficulty, from his place on the floor, a spike of protective fury swelled through him with surprising force. He couldn't let them take Sherlock...he wouldn't! He fought the pull of darkness, gulping desperately at the air that swirled all around him. It teased him, staying just out of his reach. John's eyes flickered shut, for one terrible moment...the centaur almost let them stay shut. 

A muffled cry from Sherlock dragged his heavy lids up...another made his fingers twitch. His body screamed all sorts of protests as he slowly gathered his arms under his chest. The strain of fighting against his own leaden body had him panting, but John refused to watch them take Sherlock. His legs felt numb and they nearly buckled when he managed to get them under himself! He leaned heavily against a solid beam, his body shaking. John's world tilted dangerously when he stepped away from his support.

“ _Christ.”_ Someone hissed with horror and awe, clearly noticing that John was not staying down.

Footsteps alerted John to approaching danger, his eyes unable to focus on the indistinct figures that were suddenly running at him. The young centaur cursed and took a sloppy swing at the closest. He missed and nearly toppled over, the other rushing body slammed into his right side to try and knock him off balance. It just about worked, John was floundering...until another of Sherlock's muffled shouts reached him. It was a desperate noise that tugged at something primal in John's quaking body...

John snapped an uncertain, but powerful, hind leg forward and then back; the steel clad hoof made a dull cracking noise as it buried itself into a soft body! A body that landed on the stable floor with a sputtering cry of agony. John didn't know where he'd hit the man, nor did he care. He still gasped for breath and his vision was unclear. Another body lunged for him, but John threw himself sideways...feeling someone slam against his rump before landing under his hooves with an unexpected cry of pain! The young centaur’s bright, dazed, eyes smoldered with dangerous fury as he swung a hard left hook into another's jaw. His hand smarted something awful, but he didn't think on it long as he started to make his way towards the others trying to regain control of Sherlock. Each faltering step growing more sure and swift.

The lanky teen was putting up a fight, unwilling to be picked up again, until he noticed John staggering towards them... _and_ then forcefully walking towards them. The centaur's gait was stilted and clearly forced, but he was heading towards Sherlock's unknown captors with clear intent. John was fighting through a heavy handed blow, one that most certainly would have felled an ox, and it was an impressive display of shear will on John's part. Each man that came at him, realizing the determined creature wasn't going down without a fight, was met with fist or hoof; leaving a trail of moaning bodies that were trying to get up again. 

Some did manage to get up and try to jump on John's back...the centaur grunted and staggered under the weight, but his back arched and all four feet left the ground as he bucked! Sherlock was certain one man hit the roof before he landed int he darkness. John nearly lost his footing, splaying his legs wide in the narrow stable passageway, before his visage turned on Sherlock once more. Sherlock stared back with wonder...briefly distracted by his companion’s shear willpower. It cost him, of course, and he felt rough hands hoisting him hurriedly once more as his captors headed out the stable doors.

“ _Just go!”_

Sherlock renewed his struggles, hating being manhandled and jostled like luggage. It reminded him of his unwilling journey to the estate in the first place. In fact, it had a very distinctive similarity. Thousands of answers sprang to mind, but the young man was hardly able to focus on one before a purely primal bellow echoed from the open stable doors! The man holding him turned in time to see John burst from the darkness without a single hint of unsteadiness in his stride! Whether by shear determination or some unnatural power possessed by the centaur race, John appeared at full strength. The young centaur overtook them in a mere stride, slamming his body into the Sherlock's captor and sent both boy and man toppling to the ground!

The lanky teen rolled with the fall, it didn't make it hurt any less, and came to rest several feet away from his disoriented captor. John skittered and scrambled, hooves digging into the hard-packed earth as he sought to turn back around. Time seemed to slow as Sherlock beheld John's primal glory in the moonlight. Gone was the face of a beaten down, mild mannered, healer. In his place...a warrior seemed to have risen! 

John's eyes reflected like pools of silver in the golden moonlight, flashing fury so tangible that Sherlock could feel it from his place on the ground. The centaur's nostrils flared, his lips were pulled back in a snarl of pure primal fury. Sweat beaded his brow and blood stained his left cheek, marking him in a gruesome war paint that only intensified his primal fury. Every muscle was poised for action as they rippled under the pale golden coat. His breath puffed strongly and loudly, it was the same rhythm that Sherlock had heard when John had carried him back to the estate. The centaur's head was held high, there was no sign of shame or submission in his powerful form. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that John _would_ have been the leader of his heard.

As time came back to Sherlock, nearly slapping him in the face, John ploughed through their silhouetted attackers! Bodies hit the ground in mass as the centaur cut through them without regard for who he ran into. Either they were knocked down or voluntarily threw themselves out of the way! Sherlock ducked his head as his companion lunged over top of him, keeping Sherlock under his body akin to the way a defensive mare would stand over her newborn foal. If he had to lunge away from Sherlock...it was never more than a few steps. The young man felt he should have been frightened for his safety, under the belly of a beast that was clearly so wild and fearsome, but he'd never actually felt more protected. John's hooves flashed out rapidly, never once coming close to the boy that was huddled under him. 

However, for as safe as he kept Sherlock...John was taking a beating. He missed more than one bruising strike when he endeavoured to check and see if Sherlock was still alright. Each time he took his eyes off an attacker, they struck. Sherlock struggled to break free, to stop being a hindrance to the centaur taking abuse for him. Sherlock was able to see the tremor in John's body. He was barely keeping himself on four legs, he was still very much hindered by the blow to the head and the ongoing blows that never seemed to stop. He was on the verge of collapse...that point becoming more obvious when John lashed out at one man, that got too close to Sherlock, and lost his footing. John went down on his forelegs with a heavy grunt of pain, just barely catching himself with shaking arms. Sherlock could see the trembling of John's body increasing and hear the rasping pant of his exhaustion. 

Even so, Sherlock heard John snort and watched the centaur gather himself as he dug into what little reserves he had left...to force himself to his feet once more! Sherlock felt a twinge of something in his chest and a prickling of wetness in his eyes. His companion was hellbent on keeping him safe...regardless of the cost it was to himself. It was a quality Sherlock found foolish and endearing, but mostly foolish at that moment. When John fell again, he barely bit back a horrible sounding noise...gasping hard. Surely he couldn't go on...the men closed in as the centaur looked despairingly to Sherlock. The young boy's wide eyes met his, holding them for several long seconds...before he slowly pushed his aching body up once more.

The centaur’s knees were scraped and bleeding, but if he knew...he didn't show it. John just kept standing guard over the young man...he was stubborn to the bitter end, his fists raised in defiance as his legs splayed for balance. Sherlock felt that his companion was going to collapse again...until the the porch was illuminated by a lantern through the opening front doors. Mycroft's familiar silhouette stepped, slowly, through the threshold. Lestrade was standing at his shoulder, holding the lantern. His face was grim, as if he'd been reluctantly pushed into something he hated. All the youngsters' attackers looked at Mycroft, moving into obscurity when he made a subtle hand motion.

Sherlock felt a twinge of bitter rage spark in his chest...his brother had set them up! His brother had intentionally set them up to be attacked! The younger Holmes brother had choice words for his brother, but he could voice none of them just then...but that didn't stop him trying.

Mycroft ignored his brother’s muffled shouting, turning his head to Lestrade, “I wonder if...you might fetch my brother and bring him inside...”

Sherlock's furious eyes went round as his tutor sighed and stepped off the porch, making his way through he dark yard to where the young man was sitting on the ground. He paused to give the trembling centaur a glance, but John's eyes were locked in a silent dialogue with those of Mycroft Holmes. Relatively assured he wasn't about to get a hoof to the face for his troubles, Lestrade dragged his furious pupil to his feet and marched him towards the house. Sherlock protested the whole way inside...leaving his brother and John alone.

Mycroft descended the porch steps slowly, John's first thought was that the man shouldn't be out of bed. “He told me...you agreed to stay...” Mycroft's weak voice was raspy, but not unpleasant. John shifted, still struggling to keep himself on four legs. “He believes as a companion...”

“You believe as a guardian.” John mumbled, a firm glare set in his face. “You...set this up...to...”

“To test you? Of course...” Mycroft nodded slowly as he came to an unsteady halt a few feet from the trembling centaur. “You can imagine my scepticism in your bond with my little brother, it has hardly been any time at all since your arrival.”

John felt like falling over and never getting up, the pain from a battered body reminded him that he was not at full health and shouldn't have done something so foolish. He was tempted to strike the man, but all the fight seemed drained out of him. The young centaur couldn't understand why Mycroft felt the need to test him when he'd already shown a fondness for being a the estate! Perhaps it had something to do with the man's history with centaurs...perhaps...it had something to do with why Mycroft was the way he was then...

Mycroft looked at John's knees, “I'll have Lestrade come look at those once he has Sherlock settled...” He started to turn, as if to dismiss everything.

John swallowed hard, doing the Sherlock thing and playing on a hunch, “Why...do you _hate_ my kind?”

A dark shadow flickered in the man's eyes, but Mycroft betrayed no emotion as he looked John straight in the eyes. “I don't.” He said, so softly that John wasn't sure he'd spoken at all. “Long ago...when I was young and newly arrived...I too became enchanted by your kind. Too enchanted...I dared to let one have my heart. A wild thing...a beautiful thing...” He paused, a softness coming to his features. “And my wild thing ran away with my heart...and never brought it back.” Mycroft's story was...vague...but moving. He sighed deeply and looked towards the house as a racket started up at the door. “Do not run away with his heart, John...it would break him...”

Just as Sherlock burst through the front doors, John felt himself shaking his head. “I won't...Master Holmes...”


	10. Leaving Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm very sorry for the length of time it took to post another update. I honestly hate leaving stories so long, but life got a bit out of hand. I want you to know that I will always finish a story, it might just take a little longer than I hoped. So thank you for understanding and waiting. In real life, I write as an occupation as well, so unfortunately my fan fiction, which is a hobby, does get pushed back. I do honestly feel bad I promised to update sooner, best intentions but no follow through. It's been a bit of a tough few months and I'm just kind of getting over a hurdle or two. So thank you for bearing with me through this all. I hope you can understand that I am trying to update as often as I can and I hope you still enjoy reading it even if it takes forever and a day to finish. If you want to keep more up to date on things in my life, poke around my blog (the link is in my bio page). I'll be posting update information there and I'll be more than happy to answer questions there as well. For now, lets tentatively say I'm going to try to update at least once a month. If not more. Sorry if that kind of sucks, but I think that's about all I can handle right now. You're all lovely people and thank you for putting up with me.

John stood, contentedly, in front of the manor's porch with his hip cocked and his eyes closed as he basked in the warm morning sun. His sleek summer coat shimmered like golden fire as his breath misted before his face in gentle puffs. Some time had passed since Mycroft had “tested” the young centaur, John suspected it was part punishment for scratching his study's floor. (John had explicitly asked about why the goons had been so...rough...and the elder Holmes brother had made that humming noise in response with a thoughtful gaze towards the study.) Each morning was colder than the last as the nights began to stretch further into the days. Soon, the leaves would change and so would John's coat.

The young centaur inhaled and smiled, enjoying the relative silence of the estate. It was actually quite nice on the property, and he had quite a lot more freedom after the incident. Mycroft seemed to accept his presences, but still gave John odd looks. The young centaur waited patiently for Sherlock, who was grudgingly bathing in the house at Mrs. Hudson's demands he clean up. He could hear the boy from within the house making a fuss about it. John smiled, he'd become rather fond of Mrs. Hudson...in a motherly way. She was constantly feeding him and making him things to wear. Just the other day she insisted he needed a coat and by that afternoon she seemingly magicked one into existence. It was warm and John could hardly turn it down.

He smoothed his hands over the fabric as he was joined by Lestrade. The tutor was in his usual mood, somewhere between _not quite mad_ and _what am I doing here?_ Oddly enough, he too had accepted the “charity” of Mycroft Holmes, at least in the sense that he wore clothes that fit and didn't appear patched. The grey hared man sighed as he shook off the morning chill to fumble with a cigarette.

“Morning.” Lestrade all but grumble, John guessed he'd not had his coffee just yet.

The young centaur watched the tutor, “Didn't know you smoked...”

Lestrade inhaled with a short laugh, “I don't.” The older man sighed smoke from his lips tiredly, “Unless Mycroft is being an arse.”

John couldn't help but laugh just a little, flicking his tail and nodding. Yes, Mycroft had that effect on people. He could be insufferable...at least John wasn't the only one who found him so.

“Snow's coming.” Lestrade commented about the chilling of the air. “People say it's going to be a harsh winter...crops were bad...” Lestrade sighed.

John stared silently over the landscape, nodding slowly. From what he understood, from listening to Mycroft and Lestrade and the ranch hands, it had been a very dry summer. The fields hadn't grown much...and what did grow was small. John didn't claim to know much about farming, but it sounded as if hard times were upon the lands.

“At least Mycroft had the sense to make preserves.” Lestrade added. “And he's informed me that I can take you boys hunting, which will help.”

John tilted his head and turned to the man who was quietly puffing on his cigarette. He wasn't dressed as he usually was for teaching...no...he was dressed for working. In fact, he was dressed in a manner that John had never seen him dressed before. He was dressed for hunting. Not for sport, like some higher class men might, but for actual survival. His tutor's attire was replaced by something more akin to the ranch hands. Beaten in, worn, but warm and easy to move in.

“There won't be any lessons today?” John questioned, part disappointed...and part excited.

“Nor any other day until winter sets in. Everyone needs to prepare for winter. We need to harvest and mend anything and cut wood. The hands are stretched thin and you're two young backs that could stand to do a little work.”

The centaur felt a jolt of excitement race through his body at the promise of work that didn't make his head ache! He could do physical work for days, all the mind numbing lessons, while interesting, where not what John was meant to do. He pranced as he turned to face Lestrade, smiling eagerly.

“And today you mean to take us hunting?!” John couldn't help but be excited. One, because it solidified that he was going to stay with the Holmes' as theirs...and two, because John was eager to work.

Lestrade smiled around the cigarette, “Yes.” The older man seemed to sense John wanted to express his joy, so he waved his hand absently, “Well, go on and tell Sherlock.”

John beamed and darted around the back of the house to the kitchen door, where Mrs. Hudson let him in, and all but pranced through the doorway. His hooves clicked loudly on the floor, announcing his entrance to all in the house, not that they seemed to mind anymore.

“Sherlock!”

The shaggy haired boy appeared, as if on cue, hair still wet from his bath and shirt only half on. He clearly was trying to evade Mrs. Hudson nanny him into something else he didn’t deem worthy of his time, like breakfast. John trotted over excitedly.

“Lestrade is taking us hunting!”

Sherlock paused as he looked at the excited centaur prancing before him, “What?” He smiled slowly, “Really?” His brother was going to let him go off the property for an extended amount of time with John? The lean youth grinned, his tedious morning rituals forgotten as a rush of excitement washed over him. If he were part horse he might also prance about. But as it was, there was far too much excited centaur in the kitchen for the moment.

Mrs. Hudson's voice emitted behind him, “Right! You'll need a coat, dear.” And with that said, the house keeper was off to find everything they'd need.

John smiled giddily and spun, almost knocking over a cabinet, to hurry back outside where he could be properly excited about this. Sherlock jogged after the centaur to watch. It made sense why John would be so excited, he hadn't been off the property in ages...in fact he'd not left it since his capture some time ago. But with the approaching winter, it made sense that Sherlock and John would be enlisted to help prepare.

As they hurried around the house, they were met by Mycroft on the porch, who just rolled his eyes and acted as if he wasn't secretly happy to see Sherlock in a good mood. They certainly fought a lot less since John's acceptance among their “family”. The elder Holmes sipped his tea causally as he observed his estate, seemingly ignoring the youths. But John could feel that gaze on him, it didn't make him uneasy as it once had.

It was sort of...a sad gaze. John still recalled what Mycroft had told him. He'd once loved a centaur...and it was clear he still did. John's joy didn't cease, but he stopped running rather abruptly as he turned to face the elder man on the porch. Sherlock paused as well, looking between Mycroft and John. He still had no idea what had occurred that night, what they'd said to each other. John doubted the boy knew of his brother's affiliation with a centaur, it seemed Mycroft was the only one able to lie to Sherlock.

Mycroft stared at the still centaur, raising a questioning brow.

John flicked his tail. Mycroft was technically the leader of this “herd” and John owed him a great deal. His freedom for one thing...which was something the centaur valued most. The centaur shifted a few of his feet and then offered Mycroft the most respectful gesture a centaur could give another.

A bow.

Not just the upper human portion either. He bent one foreleg back and gracefully lowered his body to a respectfully low position. One which he head for a moment, regardless of the stare that Sherlock was giving him, like he couldn't believe John was bowing to his brother. Once he reclaimed his feet, John could see Mycroft shared a similar look of disbelief. In fact, the elder Holmes was standing rather motionless on the porch. His tea partway to his mouth, hovering like he'd forgotten it was there.

John held his stunned gaze for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the shaggy haired youth staring at him. The blonde centaur smirked and bumped Sherlock with his rump before taking off at a brisk trot.

“Hurry up!”

Sherlock staggered a bit, but smiled and hurried to catch up. “You have four legs! That's cheating!”

 

* * *

 

After the boys had settled long enough to get instructions and get ready, they finally set out off the property. Lestrade leading them along towards the woods astride his own horse once more. This time she was laden with not just her ride, but provisions for the trip and Lestrade’s own rifle.

Next to him, keeping pace, was John. Like the painted mare, John not only carried his packs...he carried Sherlock and they younger man's things. Sherlock's riding had improved yes, but John and Sherlock preferred it this way. Sherlock didn't have to think about what the creature he was riding was thinking. This way was most comfortable for them all, in a sense, because Lestrade didn't have to worry about John losing Sherlock. Besides, Sherlock riding about the estate astride the blonde centaur had become a rather common sight in the recent past.

They walked in comfortable silence as they reached the end of the property. John couldn't help but smile a bit as he glanced back at the distant home...his home. They'd return in a few days time. Hopefully with a decent catch for their efforts. The young centaur hadn't realized he'd stopped walking until he felt Sherlock's gentle hands on his fur, stroking softly.

“John?”

“Sorry. I'm alright.”

Sherlock glanced back to the estate and smiled a little himself, “You know...I always dreamed of leaving that place...but now...”

John nodded, “It's become a home.” A home they all seemed to enjoy and cherish.

The blonde centaur looked to his companion...smiling softly at him before turning his attention back to the path. Trotting to catch up with Lestrade, who was waiting at the edge of the woods. The grey haired tutor was also glancing at the estate, but his eyes turned back into the woods when the pair caught up.

“Keep close, lads and quiet as possible. From here on out...we're hunting.”

Both John and Sherlock nodded, letting Lestrade lead the way into the woods. They kept walking through the brush for hours, pausing to take small breaks and to discuss the hows and whats of hunting. John had some practical experience from his time in the wilds before being caught by the Holmes. But it was more small game and scavenging than anything. Sherlock had zero experience, but like a typical Holmes, he was absorbing everything at a rapid pace. By the end of the first day, Sherlock was proving to be a proficient tracker. In fact, they'd found a promising game trail that they were going to follow the next morning.

Currently, they were setting up camp for their first night in the woods. Lestrade was tending to making a fire while Sherlock watched, eager to learn a new skill, as John found a comfortable spot to lay down nearby. Sherlock leaned in closer as he watched Lestrade gently coax a tiny amber into a small flame. Seemingly memorizing the exact trick of the whole of fire making.

Once Lestrade had the fire going, he leaned back with a sigh and smiled contently. Warming his hands near the comfortable fire. “Well, I'd say today has been better than expected.” Lestrade finally said after a few moments of silence.

“Mycroft had some doubts?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade shook his head as he reached back for one of the packs, pulling out some of the rations to divide for dinner. “Oh no...not Mycroft.” Lestrade hummed as he passed the food around.

Sherlock made a face, “You?” He frowned, “Really!”

“To be honest I thought you'd get halfway through the first day of riding and complain.” The elder tutor shrugged with a grin, John couldn't help but smile a bit.

“I do not complain!”

“You kind of do...” John quipped softly as he nibbled the biscuit with a smirk.

Sherlock looked indignant and flustered, glaring between the pair of them. He fussed for a few moments before folding his arms moodily and pouting just a bit, “I do not.” He grumbled, but his foul mood couldn't linger when John snickered just a bit at his childishness.

Sherlock felt his lips curving from their petulant frown and shook his head, leaning over to give the centaur a bit of a playful shove. John flicked his tail and just shrugged. Lestrade shook his head and sighed, “Right, finish up and get to bed you two...tomorrow we start early.” Lestrade said, finishing his own meal with a swallow of water before rolling over to this laid out bed roll. He barely seemed to pull the blanket over his shoulder before he was snoring.

John smiled and shifted, but he was mostly comfortable where he was. Sherlock glanced between John and the bedroll he was supposed to sleep on. The young man stared a moment and then slowly reached over for it, dragging it closer before snuggling up next to his centaur companion. This, again, wasn't odd anymore. John smiled and sighed comfortably as he waited for Sherlock to get comfortable. Dozing to the gentle stroking of long fingers teasing the regrowing length of his mane down his spine.

“It's grown quite a lot...” Sherlock said softly as he nuzzled his cheek into John's broad back. “Don't cut it...I like it long...” He mumbled through a yawn, leaving his fingers gently tangled in John's mane as he faded off to sleep.

John smiled subtly, “Of course.” He whispered, eyes slipping shut a few moments after Sherlock was claimed by sleep.


End file.
